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.