At the palace, he went to his rooms and ordered a bath, forced to don some of his new finery afterwards. The manservant grimaced at the state of his clothes and took them away to be cleaned, his expression making it clear that he would rather have burnt them. Blade sent the vial of potion to the Queen with a letter that told her how to use it, then settled down to wait, playing a game of peeress with himself.
The Queen arrived in his chamber at the allotted time, and her eyes widened at the sight of his bruised face.
"My Lord Conash. What happened?"
He bowed. "My Queen. A minor altercation, nothing serious."
Minna-Satu smiled. "Who won?"
"He did."
Her brows rose. "You surprise me. You, who are so deadly?"
"I am not a taproom brawler, My Queen. In my profession, there is seldom a call to fight, I am no expert at it."
"Then you should have run away."
"I tried."
"I see." She settled on a pile of cushions. "Did you get what you need?"
He nodded.
"Good, then let us proceed."
Over the next time-glass, Blade worked his magic on the Queen, transforming her, with the aid of paint and powder, into a sultry handmaiden even he barely recognised. During the times when he was forced to come into close contact with her in order to paint her eyes and don the wig, he avoided her gaze. When he was finished, she donned the cheap, but alluring gown and perfume, and he stood back to study her, nodding in satisfaction.
As he was putting away the pots of paint and powder, he said, "What of your safety, My Queen? Should Kerrion grow violent for any reason, what protection do you have?"
"Shista will come with me, unobserved, of course."
He nodded. "Good."
"Do you really think Prince Kerrion is a violent man?"
"I know him little, but I feel that he is unpredictable. He resents his captivity more than he shows, his politeness towards you is studied. You gave him the potion?"
"As you instructed."
"That will help."
Minna brushed at the silken gown. The red wig framed her face and fell about her shoulders in coiled, gleaming tresses. It was pinned to her luxuriant mane, making it seem amazingly thick. He moved closer to tug at it, ensuring its security, and she gazed up at him, turning away when he had finished. At the door she paused, her eyes pools of sorrow in the darkness.
"Thank you."
He bowed. "My Queen."
After she left, he lay awake for some time, staring at the ceiling. The Queen's sadness seemed strange. He had expected nervousness, and the excitement of a maid going to her first lover, not the solemnity and sorrow that hung about her. Her mood was better suited to a woman facing the gallows than a Queen encountering her chosen consort. He tried to puzzle out the meaning of it, but failed, drifting into the dark arms of sleep.
The next day, a sealed package arrived, containing the wig and clothes, but Blade did not see the Queen for three more days after that.
At a supper party in the Queen's apartments, which several other lords and Kerrion attended, Queen Minna-Satu appeared distant, her attitude stiff and her expression guarded. She forced a brief smile when Blade arrived, but did not speak to him. Kerrion seemed morose, and picked at his food with an uncharacteristic lack of appetite, ignoring Blade's presence. The nobles also ignored the assassin, who ate his meal in silence, too far from the Queen to speak to her.
Kerrion no longer sat at her side either, but was placed further down the table between two lords. Blade watched the stilted interaction between the Prince and Queen, gleaning little from it. Their conversation was curtly polite, though this seemed to be Kerrion's doing more than the Queen's. The Prince's eyes, however, rested upon her often whenever she glanced elsewhere, and when he was not looking, she gazed at him. Several times, Blade caught Minna looking at him when he glanced up from his food, and wondered at this also.
Queen Minna-Satu found her gaze drawn to the Prince, the memory of their encounter still fresh in her mind. Since that night, she had hardly seen him, and her invitations to dine together had been declined. When she had visited him, he had been aloof and asked her to leave. The invitation to this party had been a formal one, which he had been obliged to accept, or appear rude. As she had hoped, he had accepted rather than insult her and her other guests, but his behaviour puzzled her.
Certainly he had not seen through her disguise, yet now he seemed to want nothing to do with her. She longed to admit her guilt and tell him that their encounter had meant so much more to her than merely conceiving a child, but could not. The sorrow of that concealment ate at her, and their cold politeness towards each other brought fresh pain with each occasion, yet she longed to share his company as often as she could. She also watched the assassin, wondering what thoughts hid behind his bland expression and cold eyes.
Trouble was brewing in her court, she could sense it even here at the supper table, though Blade seemed oblivious to it. Kerrion was too sunk in his thoughts to notice or care, but she noted sly glances amongst some of her senior lords, which disturbed her, and she watched their interaction with wary eyes.
After the dinner she ordered extra guards to be stationed at the doors and windows of Kerrion's rooms, a strange intuition warning her of his danger. The next day she sent four spies to the lords who had aroused her suspicions, and decided to dine with them more often in future, so she could monitor their collaboration. Usually her lords spent most of their time scheming against each other and vying for her favour, now some of them seemed to be joining forces.
Chapter Eleven
Mendal pushed aside the musty curtain and entered the gloomy room in the bowels of the palace, which had once been used as a royal burial chamber. Eight queens were interred within its dusty confines, using all the available floor space, and a new chamber had been designated for later burials. Since then, this room had been all but forgotten, and made an excellent meeting place far from prying eyes and ears. No one ventured down here anymore, not even the cleaners or historians. The undisturbed dust that filmed the floor and tombs testified to that.
Adding his torch to the four that already burnt in sconces on the walls, he glanced around at his collaborators. The four lords seemed ill at ease in each other's company, more used to being at odds. Lord Mordon scowled at Lord Bellcamp, his dark eyes burning with hate in his thin, saturnine face. He resembled his kin, the ferret, and his quick movements and darting black eyes made his beast easy to recognise. Lord Bellcamp met his glare with pale eyes of icy blue, his thick red brows drawn together. The coldness of his stare betrayed his affinity with sharks, a rare beast for a powerful man.
Beside Bellcamp's beefy frame, the massive bulk of Lord Durlan strained at the seams of his clothes, and he mopped his face with a lacy linen handkerchief. He frowned at everyone, angered by the humid confines of the underground room, as any man of the boar would be. Lord Javare made up the final member of the quartet, but he ignored them all with equal scorn, a head of noble grey hair redeeming his rather brutish features. His beast was not so easily read, but Mendal found a kindred spirit in this man of snakes. His familiar, a ringed ground snake, had no venom, but could inflict a painful bite.
Mendal distracted their attention from each other and drew it to himself as he sat down on a dusty tomb with no regard for the remains of the ancient queen that rested within it.