The Assassin's Blade Read online

  “I’d promised myself that I would practice subtlety, but I’ll admit I am curious.”

  Faylyn looked at him suspiciously.

  “About the legend.”

  She was in no doubt of what legend he spoke of. She had, in fact, suspected as much from his dogged, amorous pursuit. She had no idea where the legend had begun, that blues were the best of lovers, but she certainly had no intention of bedding him merely because he was curious. In point of fact, since she, herself, had not even experienced her awakening, she seriously doubted he would be impressed with her abilities in the bedroom. “As devastating as it must be for you, I’m of no mind to appease your curiosity.”

  He didn’t look put off in the least. “You had no intention of dancing with me either.”

  The remark, thankfully, hailed the end of the song. She smiled up at him. “Thank you. I enjoyed the dance. Now, if you’ll excuse me….”

  “But, you must practice now that you’ve learned the steps!”

  “Unfortunately, I expect the next dance will be something more lively … and I’m of no mind to learn yet another dance.”

  “In that case, I’ll insist that the musicians play only the waltz.”

  To her surprise and not a little consternation, the musicians began yet another waltz. Without a word, her partner pulled her close once more and began to move, sweeping away any chance for further protest.

  “It would please me greatly if you would give me your name,” he said pensively after a few moments.

  “I live to please you, of course,” Faylyn said dryly. “But I can’t imagine why it would be of any importance.”

  His lips tightened fractionally. “A token of peace? A crumb to appease my wounded vanity?”

  Despite the playful delivery of his remarks, Faylyn saw with more than a little surprise that she had, undoubtedly, pierced his thick hide. And having gained her aim, she felt more than a little uncomfortable at her pettiness. In truth, he was a charming rogue—clumsy, having obviously imbibed a little too freely, but charming regardless and sincerely interested in her.

  “You are a stranger here. I would like to think you will not vanish forever at the close of the evening. I would like to know you.”

  Faylyn glanced at him. The flippancy had vanished from his voice, leaving her in no doubt that he was completely serious in pursuing more than a light flirtation. She was more disturbed, however, by his first remark. “As you do not know me, you cannot know that I am a stranger.”

  “I would have noticed you.”

  “Because I’m a blue? Are there no others here, then?”

  He shook his head. “There are others in the city, but none as lovely as you.”

  Faylyn bit her lip, trying to repress a smile. “You cannot see my face. How do you know I am lovely? Or even passable? I might be a wrinkled old crone.”

  “Your … eyes are beautiful.”

  “Why do I have the impression that you were about to say something else?”

  He looked surprised, but amusement lurked in his eyes. “I’ve no idea.”

  She gave him a look of skepticism.

  His lips twisted in a wry smile. “You are quite determined not to be easily wooed.”

  “Quite.”

  “I have my heart set on winning you to my bed this night.”

  “Alas, you are doomed to disappointment.”

  “A wager then.”

  She gave him a look. “I seem witless to you?”

  “Nay! Your wit is what I find so challenging … so stimulating!”

  “And I thought it was my … lovely eyes,” Faylyn said dryly. “In any case, I’m not likely to succumb when a wager is in the offing! You did not, perchance, mean to offer insult?”

  “Implying you might have a price? You misjudge me!”

  “Have I?” she demanded frigidly.

  “Do you?” he asked, intrigued.

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “I thought not,” he said pensively.

  “But it was worth a try.”

  She gaped at him speechlessly. One moment he was the sincere suitor, the next the clumsy seducer and she wasn’t certain whether she was more annoyed or more intrigued by the sharp inconsistencies in the man. It was patently obvious that he was accustomed to achieving his goal without the need for a great deal of charm or finesse at any time. It was obvious also

  that while his speech was not slurred, nor his dexterity greatly hampered, he had imbibed to the point of relaxation where brutal honesty was more likely to trip from his tongue than clever repartee.

  Unfortunately, his current state was dangerous. He was observant enough to realize she was a stranger and all too likely to recall more than she would like about her come tomorrow when the deed was done.

  It was time to call a halt to the flirtation.

  Fortunately, the dance wound to a close only moments later.

  “Alas, all good things…. If you’ll excuse me, now. I must find the lady’s retiring room and freshen up.”

  He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. “I know the way. I’ll show you.”

  Faylyn frowned, but as anxious as she had become to shake the man, she had no desire to draw unwelcome attention to herself by clobbering him. With as much grace as she could muster, she allowed him to escort her up the stairs to the lady’s retiring room on the mezzanine she’d so lately left. She paused at the doorway. “It was a pleasure meeting you. Thank you for the dance,” she said dismissively.

  “The pleasure was all mine, I assure you,” he said, bowing gallantly.

  Faylyn smiled faintly and went into the lady’s room. It was crowded, but she was in no hurry. Taking up a position near one wall, she propped a shoulder against it and watched the parade of women in and out of the door to the necessary room. There was a window in the main part of the lounge but far too many witnesses for any possibility of using it as an exit. A half a dozen women were seated in the chairs before the mirrored vanity.

  When Faylyn decided she’d out-waited her persistent admirer, she stood away from the wall and moved toward the door to the necessary room. The rotation of women in front of the vanity, and in and out of the necessary room seemed to indicate little chance that anyone would notice she went into, but did not come out of, the necessary.

  She joined the parade into the necessary and took up a stance near the single window in the room, waiting patiently for a pause in the traffic. When all of the stalls were occupied and the outer room empty, she pushed the window up, hefted herself onto the sill and from there onto the ledge outside, stepping quickly out of view of anyone who might enter the room or exit one of the stalls.

  The palace, she saw, crowded the very lip of the mountain it was built upon at this point. Several stories below her the stone of the palace walls gave way to rocky outcroppings, then sheered away to nothingness before touching the valley floor far below.

  A sharp gust of wind shook her from her contemplation of the breathtaking view, and she turned and made her way quickly along the ledge to the first window. Without surprise, she discovered it unlatched. There was little need for the staff to concern themselves with the windows that looked out over the valley below. The outcropping of rock at the base of the palace made the cliff face virtually unscalable for would be attackers.

  Bending her knees slightly, Faylyn grasped the window and pulled the lower sash upwards. Without a sound, she slipped inside and dropped to the floor. Heavy velvet drapes created a narrow alcove. She paused, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness and found the part between the curtains, pulling it back only enough to allow her a glimpse of the room beyond.

  She found, to her disappointment, that she had gained the hallway just outside the lady’s room. She saw no sign of her persistent admirer, however —no sign of anyone for the moment.

  She stepped through, glanced down to make certain her clothing was still presentable, and strode purposefully down the corridor.

  Her hand was grasped as she
passed one pillar. Her captor gave her a hard yank that snatched her off her feet. She came up against his chest—hard, melded against him from breast to thigh.

  Her blade was in her hand and resting lightly against his throat even before she caught her breath.

  “Lose your way?” he asked pleasantly, apparently not the least disconcerted by the knife in her hand.

  Faylyn felt the tension leave her. Annoyance took its place. “As a matter of fact….”

  She had no idea what lie would have poured forth from her lips, but she was not given the chance to utter it in any case.

  Behind her, she heard the approach of a heavy tread, which broke abruptly into a run. “Assassin!” someone behind them yelled. “To arms! Protect your Emperor!”

  Faylyn’s eyes widened, but it had nothing to do with the stampede of heavy footsteps behind them. She met the gaze of the man holding her, the same who’d followed her faithfully throughout the evening despite her best attempts to dissuade him. The man clutching her wrist in a steely grip was looking at her in a wholly different way, his eyes narrowed and speculative.

  She was grasped from behind and slammed back against the wall of the corridor.

  “Easy!” the man who’d held her ordered—her mark—the Emperor, Talor Sylvanos.

  Despite his command, she was pinned to the wall by a hard arm across her throat, felt hands pulling at her as the Emperor’s guard disarmed her. Sparks swam before her eyes like annoying insects, but she was only barely aware of the pain that exploded in her head. The arm pressed against her throat made breathing impossible. Within seconds she was struggling to drag air into lungs that labored for naught.

  “Who sent you?” the man who had his forearm pressed against her throat growled.

  She would not have answered if she’d been able to speak, if she had not been struggling to drag air into her burning lungs. She could scarcely hear him for the ringing in her ears in any case.

  “Before I’m done you’ll be singing,” the guard growled, his hot, moist breath blasting the skin of her face in a stinging wave. “Take her to the dungeon!”

  “Hold!” Talor Sylvanos commanded.

  It was the last voice she heard before unconsciousness swam up to greet her with soothing arms.

  * * * *

  “Your grace! She’s a Kilrathi assassin! She bears the mark!”

  “I saw.”

  “But ... but, Sire! You are not safe alone with her!”

  “She’s been disarmed.”

  “Which counts for nothing! She’s a Kilrathi assassin … trained in the death arts. She will find a way!”

  “Bind her then! And leave!”

  Faylyn opened her eyes as her wrists were seized and a leather cord wrapped none too gently around them. Her arms were jerked upward and the free end of the cord tied securely to the bedpost.

  Still more than half dazed, she looked up into the face of the man she had come to kill.

  If there was ugliness about him, as he’d claimed, it dwelt in his black soul. His countenance was as beautiful as sin; dark, angular, harshly masculine, but perfectly balanced, flawlessly formed and symmetrical. A stubble of dark hair on his lean jaw and chin attested to the massive testosterone that surged through his system, making him one of the more dangerous animals in the universe had he been nothing more than a lowly shepherd. The power of his position--royal sovereign of more than a dozen worlds--made him the most dangerous of the pack.

  Inwardly, she groaned, berating herself for ten kinds of fool. She should have known he was far too cocky to be no more than a guard, royal or otherwise. The man exuded self-confidence from every pore—as well he might, for few ever denied him of his smallest whim.

  A tug at her ankles distracted her, and she glanced down in time to see the guard who’d seized her tighten the loop of leather he’d placed around her ankles. As she watched, he looped it several times before tying the loose end to the bedpost of the foot board.

  Trussed like a bird for baking and bare to the skin, she noted with a good deal of consternation. They were taking no chances, apparently, that she’d had concealed weapons, or might use her clothing as one.

  She wondered if she’d been subjected to a body cavity search, as well, while she’d been unconscious. She felt around her mouth with her tongue.

  “It was removed.”

  At his comment, Faylyn glanced at the Emperor once more. He was holding a false tooth, the one implanted in every assassin’s mouth in case of torture, so that they could seek a quick release if they found themselves unable to endure. It took an effort to keep her expression impassive. She’d hoped she would be able to use the deadly gas it produced to take him with her.

  “Who sent you?”

  “I am a Kilrathi assassin.”

  “I know.”

  “Then you will also know that assassins are not informed of who has ordered a hit.”

  He studied her face for a long moment before transferring his attention to the guard who had remained. After a moment, he moved to the foot of the bed and engaged the man in a low voiced conversation. The guard left, closing the door firmly behind him.

  Talor Sylvanos turned to study her, his gaze gliding up her body in a slow sweep that missed nothing, pausing for long moments at the apex of her thighs before moving upward once more to linger over her breasts and finally moving over her facial features. The darkening of his eyes was the only indication that he found her physically pleasing. He kept his expression carefully neutral.

  “You’ve no body hair.”

  The comment surprised Faylyn out of her cocoon of imperturbability. “What?”

  He moved toward the head of the bed, trailing a long index finger along her calf to her knee, along her thigh to her femininity, paused briefly there as his gaze had, and then continued over her belly and the curve of one breast. Faylyn found she was having difficulty maintaining even breaths long before he removed the inquisitive finger. He stood over her, staring down into her eyes for a long moment, then reached down and cupped her femininity, either accidentally, or intentionally, sliding that same, inquisitive index finger between the folds of flesh that protected the sensitive inner tissue of her femininity. “No body hair.”

  It took a supreme effort to refrain from gasping as unfamiliar sensations flooded her at his touch. Finding she could not master her body’s reaction, she focused on his comment, realizing, strange as the comment seemed to her, she’d heard him correctly. She could not fathom what significance it might have, if any. However, she could think of none it could have on her mission, which meant she was allowed to respond. “It is a racial trait.”

  He nodded, withdrew his hand slowly, and moved away, standing at the window, staring out into the night. “A pity,” he murmured without looking at her.

  She digested the comment, drawing the nuances from the word, the emotion behind it, trying to decipher the indecipherable. Finally, she decided that the comment had nothing to do with her physical traits, that he was undoubtedly referring to his earlier pursuit and the fact that the night had culminated far differently than he’d anticipated. Quite possibly the comment also reflected his sentiments regarding her execution.

  She had no doubts that she was facing just that. Failure inevitably led to death.

  With an effort, she put the thoughts aside. She would have no chance of escape if she allowed herself to descend into mindless terror, and, if worse came to worse, she intended to die quickly, cleanly and with dignity intact. She needed her wits about her to accomplish what could well be her final goal.

  A tap at the door captured her attention.

  Talor turned from his contemplation, glanced briefly at her, and then faced the door. “Come!”

  The guard entered, carrying a large, covered tray. After looking around, he moved to the table that stood near the head of the bed and placed the tray upon it. It rattled, as if it was laden with objects of a metallic nature.

  Not crockery then.

 
Not food, though the tray was obviously a serving tray.

  At pains to hide her interest, Faylyn stared pointedly at the ceiling as Talor dismissed the guard. She felt his gaze upon her for several moments before she heard his tread and knew he approached the bed once more. The scrape of metal indicated that he had lifted the lid. A dull thud told her he’d leaned over to set the lid on the carpeted floor.

  Certain his attention was elsewhere, she glanced quickly at the tray and away again. Her heart beat a dull tattoo of dread against her chest wall as she mentally deciphered the images her eyes had collected.

  Devices of torture.

  She recognized most of them. She had been introduced to them by the Kilrathi, had experienced them—it being the Kilrathi assumption that experience was the best teacher and knowing what to expect was necessary to an assassin.

  Experience had not bred contempt. She knew the limits of her endurance, thanks to her training, but she could not contemplate torture without fear. She could only control the outward appearance of it.

  Curiously, however, among the devices of torture were strangely incongruous objects—a wax candle, some sort of clamps, a glass vessel containing a clear liquid, a muff made of Lrynin fur, a tiny wheel rimmed with sharp pins and a ring that was studded with metal beads, but far too large to fit anything other than the finger of a giant.

  Talor sat on the bed next to her, leaning forward to study her face for a minute--changes in her expression, she assumed.

  “Who sent you?”

  She hesitated. “I would not tell you if I knew.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I believe you do know.”

  She said nothing.

  “I’m well aware that assassins are not informed—they cannot give away information they do not have—but I believe you have some idea. I’m merely asking who you believe ordered the hit.”

  “You want me to guess? Of what use would that be to you?”

  “It’s always best, I’ve found, to know thine enemy.”

  “In other words, upon my guess, you would order their destruction, knowing full well that it would be nothing more than a guess?”

  He cocked his head to one side curiously, studying her for several moments before he spoke. “You seem to have a strange perception of me. Why would you presume that I would do such a thing on no more than a guess, educated or otherwise?”