Master of the Dance (44 page)

With this in mind, he shouldered his bag and set his fingers and toes into the grooves between the stones, inching upwards. Keeping his eyes closed helped to negate the dizzy spells' effect, and when they came, he pressed himself to the stone and clung to it until they passed. Halfway up, he rested on the window ledge below Chiana's, rubbing his brow to try to rid himself of the terrible pounding in his skull. His ears rang and throbbed in unison with the rest of his head, and his vision still blurred occasionally. Forcing himself to move on, he hooked his fingers into the next crack and hauled himself up.

By the time he reached the balcony, a cold sweat sheathed him in icy moisture and his stomach was knotted. He leant against the cold stone railing, his breath forming clouds of steam. Until he had climbed the wall, he had not realised how tired he was. It all seemed to have caught up with him at once, compounded by the blow to his head. He would not have performed an assassination in such a poor condition, and now he was being forced to do something far more dangerous. When his arms stopped trembling, he rose and crept to the door, lifted the latch with the slim metal tool he carried for that purpose and eased the door open just enough to allow him to crawl inside.

Turning sharply, he slipped into the nearest shadow and crouched there, stretching out his damaged senses to locate anyone in the room. He sensed Chiana's sleeping presence in the canopied bed, her soft, deep breaths audible in the silence. At first he sensed nothing else, and was just about to step out of the shadows and walk across the suite to alert the guards outside her door to the threat of the Contara assassin, when the faint scent of a tobacco pouch reached him.

The smell did not belong in the Regent's bed chamber. In the still air it did not give him the location of its owner, and when he scanned the room he could not make out any alien shapes in the shadows. He waited, his keen nose detecting the imperceptible essence of stale sweat and rancid breath. Straining his ringing ears, he tried to detect the intruder's breathing, which would give away his location. After a few moments, he decided that the assassin was breathing through his mouth to minimise the sounds, which was why he could smell the foetid aroma of sour wine.

Blade settled back into the shadows, using the same tactic as the intruder to remain hidden, only he did not carry such smelly items as tobacco, nor did he have bad breath. Also, a man who owned such a stench would not detect the smell of another, and although he had just spent a day in the saddle, he doubted that his odour could compete. He wondered if his entry had been noticed, but doubted it, since it had been silent, and, apart from the brief opening of the door, undetectable.

The possibility that he may have to fight the strange assassin made him reach into his bag and draw out his boot-blades. Using immense caution, he strapped them on, covering the metal soles with the soft leather sheaths that improved his grip and silenced the blades' clacking. He had sharpened and repaired them as well as he could on the journey, and, although one was shortened, they were still deadly. Pushing his bag behind him, he crouched and froze, his hands on the hilts of the daggers in his belt.

Several minutes passed in utter silence, then Chiana snorted and tossed, making him stiffen for an instant before he forced himself to relax again. Nervousness was useful to an assassin, but not when innocent distractions triggered it. While he waited, he pondered the incredible coincidence that had brought him to the palace on the night when one of the Contara assassins made his attempt. Or perhaps fate had once more taken him in its fickle grip, he thought bitterly. If, as Shamsara had said, he was an instrument of Tinsharon, then his presence here was preordained, and he almost wished he was somewhere else.

To be used thus, even by God, rankled. One of his legs cramped, and he shifted to ease it, which made his knees ache. He was growing far too old for his trade, and, although his patience had improved, his ability to remain still in awkward positions had definitely deteriorated. At least the waves of dizziness had ceased to wash over him, and it seemed that he had not lain unconscious in the flowerbed for too long if the Contara assassin was still making his way across the suite. The guards outside were certainly dead, and the doors barred from the inside, if the assassin was any good.

Blade's eyes were jerked to the sitting room door as a flitting shadow crossed it, and he tensed. His thigh cramped, and he cursed silently as he was forced to stretch out his leg to ease it. As the pain ebbed, the movement came again. This time the dark figure eased around the door like an oozing, solid shadow, and paused.

Blade held his breath, his gaze riveted to the stealthy figure, which would melt into the gloom if he did not concentrate on it. It moved again, creeping towards the bed, and closer to Blade. He rose slowly, using the power of his legs to hold himself in a half crouch, his bent legs ready to propel him forward with strength gleaned from years of dancing. The intruder paused a couple of yards from the bed and drew a long, slender dagger from his belt, then stepped forward again.

Blade left the shadows with swift, silent strides that ate up the distance between him and his target, yanking the daggers from his belt. He arrived beside the intruder as silently as a hunting cat stalking its prey, and reached out to slash the strange assassin's throat. The slight movement of air caused by his arrival alerted the intruder a moment too soon. He spun, jerked back and dropped into a crouch as Blade's dagger parted the air where his throat had been an instant before.

The Jashimari assassin followed his target with deadly intent, stabbing him in the arm as he jerked aside to avoid the blow and lost his footing in the process. The stranger grabbed Blade's wrist, pulled him down and sent him sprawling with a soft thud and grunt. The man rolled to his feet as fast as Blade did, and like him, was difficult to see in the darkness. Blade could not glance away for fear of losing sight of his opponent, and lunged at the intruder again, feinted with one dagger and stabbed his foe in the side with the other as the man swayed aside to avoid the ruse. The Contara assassin backed into a small table and upset it, sending a delicate pottery vase to the floor with a terrific crash.

Chiana awoke with a gasp and sat up, peering into the darkness, which, apart from the faint moonlight that streamed in through the window, was complete. Picking up the tinderbox beside the bed, she sent a shower of sparks onto the oil lamp's wick, which flared into brilliant flame, making her squint. Without bothering to put on the glass, she turned to see what had made the noise that had woken her, and gasped again in surprise.

Two assassins faced each other a couple of yards beyond the foot of her bed, one of whom she recognised.

"Blade!"

The second man glanced at her, then back at Blade. "So, it was you I hit in the garden, not one of the other two. The Queen's Blade himself."

The Jashimari assassin's frown deepened. "And I don't appreciate the headache."

"I should have killed you."

"Yes, you should."

"Then I'll do it now."

Blade shook his head. "I doubt that."

"And when I've finished with you, I'll kill her."

"Not when you're dead."

The Contara assassin smirked. "Don't count on winning this encounter, old man. You should have stayed in retirement."

Chiana shook herself from her stunned immobility and shouted, "Guards!"

"Do not waste your breath, they are dead," Blade growled. She slid across the bed to reach the bell-pull, and he shot her a swift glance. "Stay where you are."

The intruder chuckled. "You're not going to save her, elder. I'm half your age and twice as fast. You don't stand a chance."

"I wouldn't wager on it, Contara pup. I've forgotten more about killing than you'll ever learn."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

"You to try to kill me, of course."

Chiana clutched the bedclothes to her, watching the assassins with deep trepidation. Her confidence in Blade's ability was such that she was hardly afraid for herself, but she feared he would be hurt in this deadliest of encounters. In fact, he already looked injured. He held his head at an angle, and his features were pinched with pain. Tearing her eyes from the men, she turned to set the glass on the lamp and light another, hoping the extra illumination would help her husband. The assassins stood frozen, and she wondered what the intruder was waiting for.

Then, as if alerted by a sixth sense, Blade spun and dropped as a second grey-clad figure emerged from the shadows behind him. A steely glitter flashed through the air where he had been standing an instant before. The dagger clattered off the far wall, and Blade rolled to his feet and flicked one of his weapons, which missed the moving shadow of the second assassin by a hair. Chiana yelped as the first man turned and ran towards her. Blade swung, his feet slipping on the smooth floor, and launched himself at her attacker. The first assassin whipped around to face Blade, ducked and spun aside to avoid the slash of Blade's weapon.

Chiana crawled to the head of the bed and crouched there, ready to flee, her heart pounding and her breath catching with terror. Her confidence had vanished now that two strange assassins attacked her husband. The second assassin emerged from the shadows, circling Blade with daggers in his fists. Blade drew a second dagger from his wrist sheath to replace the one he had thrown. The first assassin smirked.

"Not so confident now, eh, elder?"

"I could take on four of your ilk, pup," Blade snarled.

"You're breaking the code, defending a target. Assassins don't defend. We're not guardians."

"She's my wife, you imbecile."

"Another blatant flouting of the code."

"I don't care for your opinions, Contara scum."

The man behind Blade moved, and Chiana opened her mouth to shout a warning. Blade whipped around, ducked the slash that would have opened his throat and stabbed at the second assassin's belly. The Contara assassin swayed aside in the nick of time, and the first assassin launched himself at Blade's back, causing Chiana to draw breath to shout again, but once more she was too slow.

Blade spun and leapt, lashing out with a foot. The first assassin staggered back, struck in the chest. He gaped at the blood that trickled from the wound, then his eyes flicked to Blade's feet and his expression hardened. He lunged at Blade, slashing with both daggers. Blade spun away and launched himself into a high whirling leap, his blade-tipped feet slashing the air. The second assassin, in the act of leaping forward, was forced to throw himself aside to avoid the razor-edged steel.

To Chiana's horrified eyes, their duel was a macabre, deadly dance, the likes of which few had ever seen. The three moved constantly, their actions flowing with such grace and ease that they were difficult for her eyes to follow. The endless whirl of flashing steel and supple forms, kicking legs and slashing arms, lunging, stabbing, leaping and spinning, was mesmerising. She stared at Blade, drinking in the raw power of his movements and his unadulterated grace and deadliness. The incredible speed with which he reacted to every danger and countered or avoided it was a wonder to behold.

His opponents' daggers slid past him, or were knocked aside by his defensive reactions, which seemed to anticipate every attack the Contara launched. Cuts appeared on the three men as if by magic, the actions that inflicted them too swift to see. She winced as one of Blade's slashing strokes opened the cheek of the first assassin, and bright blood sprayed across the floor.

The second man lunged at Blade, and his weapon skimmed past Blade's ribs as he jumped aside, the fine chain mail that sheathed his torso deflecting it. The first assassin attacked, and Blade threw himself backwards, kicking out as he did so. One boot-blade stabbed the assassin in the belly, the other flicked past his head, shaving the side of his skull. The man grunted and staggered away, clutching his gut. Blade landed on his back, broke his fall with his hands and rolled away as the second assassin tried to kick him, leaping to his feet with astonishing agility.

The man he had stabbed in the gut straightened, staring at his bloody hand, then growled and strode into the fight again, attacking Blade from behind. The Jashimari assassin whipped around as the second assassin leapt at him, throwing himself aside, but the double attack could not be completely avoided, and he grunted as the injured assassin stabbed him in the shoulder. Blade dropped and kicked, plunging a boot-blade into the injured assassin's thigh, and the man hissed.

Blade rolled to his feet and slashed at the second man, cutting a gash through his hair. The first assassin kicked Blade in the back of the leg, sending him to his knees. He ducked as the second assassin aimed a kick at his head, allowing the boot to skim over his hair, then stabbed the man in the back of his thigh. The second assassin gave a short shriek and leapt away, melting into the shadows. Blade spun to face the first man, who spread his arms and assumed a fighting crouch, holding Blade's attention with this blatant threat.

Blade's head throbbed savagely, and the pain increased with every jerk of his neck and blow he received. The room seemed to dance and sway in his eyes, and he knew he was outmatched in his present condition, even with the advantage of the boot-blades. He could not tear his eyes from his opponent, who would attack the instant he did, and his cohort waited in the darkness to strike from behind. With speed that belied his injury, Blade moved sideways with the quick foot-crossing steps used in the Dance of Death, leapt high and kicked.

His boot-blade cut the air where the Contara's chin had been an instant before, but, as was usually the case in fights between assassins, his opponent was quick and experienced enough to avoid it. Blade's knees almost buckled when he landed, one joint weakened by the blow it had received earlier. He dropped to one knee to soften the impact, and a dagger whizzed over his head to thud into the table beside Chiana's bed. Realising that he might not be the second assassin's target, he flung a glance at his wife, who huddled against the headboard, her face as pale as the sheets, her eyes white ringed.