Minna chuckled. "So, you find him attractive."
"Who would not, My Queen?"
"Indeed, you are quite right. Who would not? But alas, no woman will ever find comfort in his arms, or passion in his eyes, though it is not impossible that he should love. A woman willing to sacrifice the hope of children might find great happiness with him, if she was prepared to be his friend."
"But would he wish it?"
Minna shrugged. "It all depends, I suppose, on whether his affections can be won. He may be too proud, too used to being alone, too bitter perhaps. But everyone grows lonely, and there can be none so alone as a man such as him. An outcast, a misfit through no fault of his own. It must be hard."
Chiana nodded, and, after a short silence, they turned to the business of the day.
Blade crouched behind a ridge and pulled the spyglass from his belt, setting it to his eye. Through it, he scanned the massive camp below him. Thousands of men milled within a sea of dull brown tents pitched in the desert, and the hot wind whipped away the smoke from their fires. It carried the scent of cooking meat and sweat, the tang of rusting armour and the stale stench of urine. The mountains at his back guarded the Jashimari lands beyond, craggy grey peaks that rose in a long line like a god-made wall dividing the warring kingdoms.
It was along this border that all the battles of the Endless War had been fought, on one side or the other. Here the bones of countless warriors enriched the soil, and the remnants of broken armour and weapons rusted in the sand. Once there had been many towns on the far side of the mountains, peaceful villages that farmers and shepherds tenanted. Most of these had been wiped out now, however, like the one in which he had been born. The change in terrain from one side of the mountains to the other was drastic. Here, sand lapped at the foothills, on the other side, grassland stretched away to distant forests.
The Cotti warriors loomed large in Blade's spyglass, their shaven heads gleaming in the sun, their skins a deep golden-brown. Most had shucked their boiled leather armour and wore only tunics of rich yellow emblazoned with a silver sun, symbol of the Cotti kings. He wondered how tired they must be of fighting, and of eating the salted meat sent to them from the distant oasis where their city was built. He spotted a group of camp followers, harridans and toothless whores who earned their keep on their backs each night.
Their presence comforted him, and he moved the glass on, searching for the King's tent. Blade recoiled as a dead face filled the glass, pausing long enough to take in the details of the four men staked out in the sand, their bodies mutilated beyond belief, their eyes plucked out by crows. Snatching the glass from his eye, he turned and retched, emptying the meagre contents of his stomach. If he failed, his fate would be similar to theirs, perhaps worse.
Wiping sweat from his brow, he lay back on the hot rock and struggled for composure. His bold words to the Queen mocked him now that he faced the enemy, and the horror that could befall him. After a few minutes, he lifted the glass again, avoiding the grim sight as he continued his search. King Shandor's tent was little different from his warriors', but for the pennant that flew above it. It stood almost at the centre of the camp, and any who tried to reach it would be forced to walk a long way through the King's army. Lowering the glass, he noted its location, then gathered his possessions and moved back to the cave he had selected for his preparations.
There he sank down on the sandy floor and contemplated the task before him. This was no simple feat. One slip, one mistake, and he would die horribly. He had much in his favour though, compared to the men who had gone before him. The Queen had sent strong warriors, doubtless wise and wily, but no amount of courage or cunning could save them within King Shandor's camp.
Blade pondered Queen Minna-Satu, enjoying the memory. A regal lady, certainly, and a perceptive one. He had spent many moons nursing tankards of ale in shoddy inns, finding the courage to go to her. When Lilu had told him of the reward her client had bragged of soon receiving, he had been only slightly interested. When she had revealed the intended victim, however, his blood had coursed faster in his veins. Lilu, like Chiana, was unobservant, and had never understood his lack of interest, seeking every opportunity to speak to him, hoping, he supposed, to lure him with her somewhat doubtful charms. After the first piece of information, he had encouraged her a little, and learnt of the failure of the others sent to kill the King. After the third failure, he had mustered his courage and gone to the palace.
Queen Minna-Satu's beauty had surprised him. Her people knew little about her. Few had ever seen her, and then only briefly at a distance. He wondered what she planned to do with the Prince. Killing King Shandor would be a great blow to his people, but he had plenty of sons to replace him. Kidnapping the heir would only put a younger prince on the throne, a pointless exercise. Yet the Queen did not strike him as a fool.
Shaking himself from his thoughts, Blade pulled one of his packs closer and undid the thong that bound it. After spreading a cloth on the floor, he emptied out the bag's contents. A pile of cheap women's clothing tumbled out, worn and faded, followed by a slither of vivid blue silk and a knot of pretty necklaces, earrings, bangles and rings. Last of all, a leather pouch. Blade contemplated the pile with bitter eyes.
They were the sometimes tools of his trade, used for special assassinations, such as this one. With a sigh, he poured water onto a cloth and washed his face, then stripped to the waist and bathed his torso, wiping the sweat from his armpits. He opened a pot of oily dye he had purchased along the way and rubbed it onto his arms and face, covering his neck and some of his chest. The colour was right, a pale golden-brown. Selecting a bottle of cheap perfume, he anointed himself.
A small mirror afforded him a view of his face as he outlined his eyes with kohl and rubbed blue powder onto the lids. Berry juice reddened his lips, and he pinned a blond wig over his hair, then surveyed the results with some satisfaction. He removed his trousers and boots and wrapped a length of cloth around his hips before donning the ankle-length blue gown. Two water bags filled the bodice, granting him a generous bosom.
Aware that the tiniest detail could betray him, he checked his hands to ensure that they bore no calluses. His fingers were as fine as a woman's, the nails clean and short, and the skin dye hid the faint scars of dagger practice in his youth. He strapped the leather dagger sheaths to his forearms and pulled the loose sleeves over them. The earrings had to be forced through the holes in his earlobes, long since closed from disuse. The cheap baubles added the final touch, the necklaces hiding his tattoo, and he strapped on a pair of sandals, wondering if he looked a little too fine to pass as a camp whore. He rubbed some dirt into the faded overdress, just to be safe.
Picking up the mirror, he searched for imperfections, anything that might give him away. The face that looked out at him could easily have been that of a remarkably handsome woman. A little strong-featured perhaps, but his cheeks were as smooth as any girl's, impossible for a normal man, no matter how well shaven. He used this disguise rarely, and hated it. The memories it evoked were painful and ugly. It enabled him to be the perfect assassin, however, with the appearance of a weak woman and a man's hidden strength. Putting away the mirror, he brushed the wig and donned a gossamer veil over it, then checked himself one last time. Pulling up the hood of the pale fawn cloak, he left the cave and moved down towards the camp.
By the time he reached the outskirts, the sun sank in a medley of glorious colours, and the gathering gloom added to the perfection of his disguise. Emerging from the desert, he would appear to be a camp woman returning from the latrine pits. He passed two guards unnoticed, and slipped between the tents. Walking with a graceful, swaying gait, he strolled towards the King's distant abode. For some time he passed unchallenged, then a hag looked up from the pot she stirred and called out to him.