The Queen's Blade Prequel II - God Touched (14 page)

He looked away
and sighed. “That's enough. Get off me before I do hurt you.”

“
You wouldn't.” She returned to the mat, however.

“
I want the rest of the names.”

“
And I'll give them to you. One at a time.”

“
So I'll look after you until I have all of them? It won't
work.”

She gazed into
the flames. “You can't kick me out on the street. I might die, or
someone might kill me.”

“
You and that screaming brat aren't staying here.”

“
He's hardly screamed at all, and then he only wants to feed.
Once he gets it, he's quiet.”

“
I don't care. You're not staying here.”

“
Why not?”

“
I don't want you here.”

Lilu shot him
a hurt look. There was no arguing with such a bald, cruel
statement. “I'll have to find lodgings.”

“
You can't afford lodgings with what you earn now.”

“
Then what do you suggest?”

“
I'll find you a job, tomorrow,” he said.

“
Doing what?”

“
I don't know. How about a washerwoman?”

“
I'm not strong enough to scrub clothes all day.”

“
A seamstress?”

She shook her
head. “I can't sew.”

“
A charlady?”

“
They make less than I did.”

He sighed. “A
wet-nurse?”

She pulled a
face. “They also get paid a pittance.”

“
I know.” He snapped his fingers. “How about a
harlot?”

“
I'd rather not.”

“
Then what else can you do?”

She clasped
her knees, rocking. “I'd make a good wife. I bear healthy
sons.”

“
No one wants to wake up to that face.”

“
Don't you want sons?”

He looked
away. “No.”

“
Why not? Every man wants sons.”

“
I don't.”

She glanced at
the baby. “Look at him. He's so big and strong. Imagine if he was
your son.”

He rubbed his
face. “I'm trying not to.”

“
Why wouldn't a man want a son?”

“
I don't like brats, now leave it alone.”

“
I can't work yet,” she said.

“
I'll arrange something.”

“
Thank you.”

“
I'm not doing it for you.”

“
I know.”

Blade crouched
on the edge of a rooftop and watched the man walk past below,
certain that he was the right one when he passed under a street
lamp that illuminated his features. A marsh hawk perched on his
shoulder, its head bobbing. Jobal had led the assassin on a merry
chase with his penchant for visiting multiple taprooms in a night,
more often than not accompanied by several other big men. They were
probably part of the same group that had tried to kill Blade, but
he wanted them alone when he confronted them. At last, Jobal was,
and the opportunity was good. Blade slid off the roof, his boot
blades scraping on the tiles, and dropped.

Jobal halted
when the assassin landed in front of him with a clack of
steel-soled boots, his brow furrowing.

“
Who in Damnation are you?”

Blade
straightened. “What, you don't recognise me without the blood and
bruises?”

Jobal stepped
back. “You. What do you want?”

“
I'd have thought that was obvious. You and your pals tried to
kill me.”

“
I was paid. It's not my fault.”

“
Who paid you?”

“
The Trobalons.”

Blade cocked
his head. “I know that. Which one?”

“
I don't know. All of them. They sent a servant with the money
and instructions.”

“
If I have no better target, you'll have to do, won't
you?”

“
I don't know any more, I swear.”

The assassin
smiled. “I don't care.”

“
You can't kill me without a client.”

“
How do you know I don't have one?”

Jobal shook
his head. “No one wants me dead.”

“
I wouldn't be so sure of that. I do.”

“
Like I said –”

“
Assassins have a few rules, but we have traditions too. You
see,” Blade explained chattily, “we don't like it when people try
to kill us. And if that was allowed free rein, we wouldn't be safe.
People don't like us, after all. So we have something called 'blood
debt'. Any man who tries to kill an assassin and fails is fair game
for that assassin. If he succeeds, he's fair game for other
assassins, provided they can identify him reliably.

“
That's why not many people are stupid enough to try to kill
one of us. Chances are, they would be signing their own death
warrant. That doesn't include, of course, assassins who're killed
while they're trying to do their job, that's just considered bad
luck or ineptitude. We don't do much for each other, but this is in
all of our best interests, because it puts people off trying to
kill us, except, of course, idiots like you. The Trobalons didn't
tell you that, did they? Deliberately, I suspect. So, will you run,
or will you fight?”

Jobal drew a
knife from his belt and brandished it. His familiar took wing,
landing on a nearby gutter. The delicate, pink-breasted marsh hawk,
with its narrow, cream and brown banded wings was almost blind in
the dark, despite its large eyes. Blade smiled and stretched out
his arms, releasing the daggers from his wrist sheaths. They slid
into his hands, and he raised them. Jobal gulped, his eyes
white-ringed. It seemed that, without his friends to back him up,
Jobal was a coward.

Blade raised a
hand, holding the dagger by the blade, and flicked it into Jobal's
shoulder with a meaty thud. The man cursed, stepping back, and
tugged the weapon out with a grimace and grunt. He waved it, a
little smugness creeping into his expression.

“
You missed,” he jeered.

“
No, I didn't.”

“
I'm not dead.”

“
If I wanted you dead, you would be.”

“
You're not going to kill me?”

Blade
shrugged. “Not yet, and certainly not quickly. That would be too
easy for you. I endured a great deal of pain, thanks to you, now I
intend to return the favour.”

Jobal growled
and lunged, slashing with Blade's dagger. The assassin swayed back,
allowing the weapon to whip past his chin, then opened a gash in
Jobal's shoulder with a flick of his dagger. The thug recoiled,
clutching his arm, and Blade drew another weapon from his belt.
Jobal turned and bolted. Blade cursed and gave chase, the boot
blades hampering him, causing him to skid on the cobbles. Jobal
proved to be fleet, and sprinted out of the alley and headed up the
street, arms pumping. Blade raced after him, cursing afresh at the
racket that the boot blades made. Perhaps wearing them had not been
such a good idea. Then again, perhaps chasing Jobal was not such a
good idea either. The assassin slowed, cursing again. Not only was
he denied his revenge, he had lost a dagger into the bargain.

Jobal glanced
back and halted, turning to grin and jeer, “What, can't you run
fast enough, assassin? Too much effort for you, you lazy bastard?
Or are you a coward?”

Blade scowled,
hefting his weapons. Due to the lateness of the hour, the streets
were deserted, since tomorrow was a working day. Jobal and his
cronies, however, went drinking every night, since their services
were for hire but they had no permanent employment. The assassin
walked towards his quarry, annoyed when Jobal continued to hop
about and shout snide remarks. The man seemed to have found a font
of courage, and Blade wondered at its source. The goading riled
him, however, and he broke into a run again. Jobal took off up the
street, Blade gaining on him.

The thug
ducked into an alley, and Blade skidded around the corner after
him, halting. A group of ten men sat or stood around a brazier,
quaffing ale and wine. Jobal ran into their midst, shouting, and
the band of cutthroats turned to look at Blade. He had no doubt
that this was the same group that had attacked him, and hung about
together, even after the taprooms closed. From their ugly
expressions and muttering, Jobal had told them who pursued him and
why. Blade backed away, glancing around for the nearest escape
route. The men charged with a roar, and he sprinted for the closest
convenient wall with a drainpipe attached.

Reaching it,
he found his hands full of daggers and pushed them into their
sheaths before gripping the drainpipe. As he hauled himself up, he
realised that the boot blades would make climbing extremely
difficult, if not impossible. With a spurt of dread, he released
the pipe and turned to run. A man skidded to a halt in front of
him, and another blocked the way behind. Blade's senses expanded to
encompass his enemies, and he yanked the daggers from his belt.
Jobal still regaled his cronies with Blade's plans to exact
revenge, displaying the cut on his arm and stab wound in his
shoulder.

The cutthroats
did not waste time on words. The man behind Blade rushed in, and
the assassin spun, leapt, and kicked. His boot blade slashed the
thug's cheek, making him recoil with a yell. As Blade landed, he
whipped around to face a man who attacked from the other side.
Ducking under the sweep of the thug's knife, Blade lunged,
thrusting a dagger into the man's belly. Now that he was defending
himself, Blade was fully entitled to kill them, although he would
have preferred not to take on all eleven at the same time. Another
man charged from the side, and Blade's arm swept out, the dagger
slashing across his assailant's throat. Before Blade could recover,
a fist hit him on the shoulder, and he staggered sideways.

Blade kicked
another cutthroat in the thigh as the man tried to grab his arm,
spun away and leapt high to drive his foot into a fourth man's
neck. The thug staggered away with a roar, clasping his neck, from
which little red fountains spouted. Blade swung around, his arms
outstretched, and stabbed another man who attempted to slash him
with a long knife. The cutthroat collapsed, clutching his chest,
and a cord whipped around Blade's throat from behind as he turned.
He jerked up his daggers and sliced through the twine, lopping off
a few fingers as well, judging by the man's howl of pain. A fist
hit him in the flank, sending him sprawling with a grunt, and his
foes closed in, kicking him. Blade rolled away, slashed at their
legs and inflicted gashes that made the thugs leap back with foul
curses.

As the
assassin regained his feet, a blow on the back of his neck sent him
hurtling into the man in front, who he stabbed in the gut. Someone
grabbed his arm, and he kicked, impaling the man in the crotch. A
fist cracked into his jaw, sending him spinning to the cobbles
again, and he rolled as boots thudded into his ribs. One clipped
his chin, and he tasted blood. A knife gored his side, making him
grunt, and he kicked upwards with a steel-tipped boot, impaling a
man in the chest. The crook recoiled with a curse, falling to his
knees, but the rest closed in again. Another knife sliced across
Blade's neck, narrowly missing his jugular. He lashed out, and a
harsh grunt rewarded him, then a boot hit the back of his head and
stars flashed in his eyes.

Blade could
not tell how many of his assailants remained. His vision was
blurred and red-tinged and his breath came in rasping gasps. The
wild run through the city had tired him, and the extreme exertion
of fighting so many opponents sapped his strength further. Blood
slimed him under his jacket, mixed with sweat. A garrotte whipped
around his neck, and his hand flashed up to block it. The wire
sliced into the back of his wrist and one side of his neck when his
foe pulled it tight. Blade stabbed backwards with his free hand,
hitting something solid with a meaty thud. The wire loosened, then
tightened again, cutting off his air. He tried to turn, but someone
gripped his arm, and knees and boots bore him to the ground.

If they
succeeded in pinning him down and disarming him, he had no doubt
that they would kill him. Killing a sober assassin, however, was
not an easy thing to do, and perilous, as they were discovering. A
man grabbed Blade's free hand and wrenched the weapon from it.
Blade jerked up a leg to yank another weapon from its boot-sheath.
The men growled curses while they kicked and punched him, and a
slash of his dagger opened a man's throat in a fountain of blood.
The man who held the garrotte jerked on it, striving to throttle
Blade, but his wrist held it at bay, although it was sliced to the
bone.

Blade fought
on pure instinct, all else washed from his mind save his danger and
the weapons that tried to kill him. His foot jerked up as a thug
tried to drive a dagger into his gut, slicing open the side of the
man's face. Blade twisted, seeking to get free of the garrotte,
which hampered him severely and threatened to rob him of his
senses. He jerked up his legs, using supreme suppleness that even
few assassins possessed. His feet flashed past his head to clunk
into the man who held the wire. The garrotte fell away, and Blade
rolled free, coughing and wheezing.

A fist hit his
gut and a dagger gashed his arm, sliding off it to stab him in the
ribs. The deflection made its entry shallow, however, and Blade
jerked up his feet again, two thuds and grunts telling of their
success. Darkness nibbled at his vision as he rolled again, his
boot blades scraping on the cobbles. Pushing himself up on his
arms, he staggered to his feet, slipped in the blood that slimed
the road and almost fell. He wheezed, aware that blood ran down his
chest inside his jacket, and turned as he sensed an attack from
behind. His foe stopped with a gasp when Blade's weapon impaled his
chest, and collapsed to writhe in the dirt.