rich in bounty for my army to plunder on the way to your city. I have a hundred and seventy leagues of pitiless desert guarding mine.'
'Then why have none of your forefathers done so?'
'Because it would be uneconomical. An all-out offensive would severely weaken the desert armies, leaving us vulnerable to the nomads and start another war with your ally to the west, King Jan-Durval. You think the carnage is bad now, but we are only fighting a low-grade war, little more than a border skirmish. You may lose a thousand men in a moon, more or less, but a full Cotti invasion would cost you more than that in a day.
'Yet neither of us can afford to call a truce, for that would put twenty, thirty thousand jobless men on the streets of our cities. They would become thieves and murderers, or band together as brigands and outlaws. Our foundries would collapse and our mines close, putting more onto the streets. Men who know nothing but how to dig ore, smelt metal or make weapons.'
'I know all this,' Minna said. 'What is your point?'
'My point is that you cannot afford to rile me. I have been quite patient up until now, and you have been polite. We have had our discussions and reached our conclusions, there is no need for me to stay here longer and risk losing my throne. Send me back now, or kill me and deal with Lerton. If you keep me here longer against my will, I shall be a worse enemy than he when I return.'
Queen Minna-Satu sank down on her cushions, bowing her head. The shadowy pools of her downcast eyes and obvious dejection filled Kerrion with anguish. He longed to take her in his arms and promise her peace and happiness forever. His helplessness made his hands clench, and he glanced at Shista, who watched him with icy green eyes, her tail twitching.
'Will you leave me now, Prince Kerrion?' the Queen said without raising her head.
Kerrion inclined his head and swung away, closing the door behind him.
Minna went over to Shista and hugged her, ran her hands through her tawny fur and caressed the sleek muscles that lay beneath it. Touching the cat soothed her, and Shista's deep purr helped to win the battle against the hot tears that welled in her eyes.
'Soon, My Prince,' she murmured. 'Soon you may return to your land of sand and sun. When I am sure.'
Blade began planning Lord Mordon's demise the following morning. Walking into the city early, he found the lord's town mansion in an affluent suburb, the domiciles of rich merchants and bankers surrounding it. The double- storey house stood in a manicured garden, the tall trees that grew beside it throwing shade onto pale walls and a red-tiled roof. Blade wandered the streets around it, studying it from every angle as he weighed up the best course of action. A high stone wall separated it from the street and its neighbours, but that presented no problem. The quartet of guards who patrolled the grounds did hamper him, but not unduly. This was not a time to use a disguise, for Lord Mordon was a married man who kept to his wife. Well pleased, Blade decided upon a stealthy kill, rather than a blatant one.
The assassin spent most of the day on top of a wall on the other side of the street, watching the activity within the house. Through the windows, he mapped the various rooms with his spyglass, finding the main bedroom upstairs with a balcony outside it. At lunchtime, Lady Mordon went into town in a smart carriage, a maid beside her and two footmen riding on the back. The assassin studied the various familiars that accompanied the coach, deciding that the fat grey mare who trotted unburdened behind it was Lady Mordon's familiar, and the small dog belonged to one of the footmen. No others were in evidence, but this was not unusual, for most people who worked as servants had small, inconspicuous familiars. Lady Mordon's mare would pose no problem, since she would sleep in the stables at night.
Blade left his vigil to find an inn and eat a watery fish broth, then returned to take up his post once more. In the afternoon, a spotty youth appeared and played with a large dog in the garden, his garb that of a nobleman's son. Lord Mordon did not return until sunset, arriving in another carriage, a little grander than his wife's. He greeted his son with a wave, and the two went into the house together. With the patience of a cat stalking its kill, Blade waited until the servants left and the lights winked out one by one in the house, leaving only the patrolling guards. While he waited for the lord and his lady to fall asleep, he checked his equipment bag, ensuring that he had everything he needed, then made sure his daggers slid from their sheaths with well-oiled ease.
Finally, he pulled on the black leather mask that covered his face, leaving only his eyes visible and hole through which to breathe. He rose and stretched out the kinks of the long wait, springing down from the wall as lightly as a cat. His dark clothes blended in with the shadows as he trotted across the street to the wall around the mansion, stopping there to listen.
The guards walked in pairs, chatting. Blade waited until their voices moved away before jumping up to grab the top of the high wall and pull himself onto it. Flattening himself, he watched the guards from his vantage point, marking their positions. They patrolled around the house in a clockwise fashion, each pair on opposite sides at one time. This meant that while one pair walked away, the second pair approached. Blade frowned, scanning the garden for dogs that might raise the alarm, but found none.
Turning his attention to his route, he studied the tree that overhung the bedroom balcony. The smoke tree was named for its peculiar grey foliage made up of tiny leaves, which gave the appearance of its branches being wreathed in tendrils of smoke. In spring these trees were covered in tiny pink blossoms that gave off a sweet smell, but whose pollen could give a nasty rash and severe itching. Fortunately it was late summer, and the tree bore only hard green fruit, some starting to turn yellow. It looked easy enough to climb, but its branches became rather thin before they reached the balcony. There were thicker boughs higher up, but that would mean a long drop down.
Again he bided his time, watching the guards and alert for any other danger. None offered itself, but still he waited as the moon rose, glancing at it irritably, for it was almost full. Had he been superstitious, the moon's face might have reassured him, for it was a Death Moon, its cratered surface resembling a skull. He pondered the moon's various faces and their significance, to pass the time.
Of its five aspects, the Death moon was the most feared, but as it turned, it presented a face called the Maiden, though Blade had never seen the resemblance. During this phase it was supposed to be a good time for maids to marry and lose their virginity, but he had no idea why. The next face to appear was the Warrior, bringing with it good omens for battles, when the pitted grey surface resembled a grotesque man with an upraised fist.
A cat fight started down an alley nearby, the wailing banshee dirge of battling toms soon rousing a householder to shout and throw something that clattered on the street, silencing the combatants. The assassin, his nerves jangling from the disturbance, relaxed again. A dog barked, answered by another, then fell silent. Blade shifted his position as it grew uncomfortable, settled into a less awkward one and scratched the itch that had started under the leather hood.
Returning to his contemplation of the moon, he considered the next phase, called the Sea Moon, when a smooth area of the satellite appeared, dotted with small craters like waves. This was supposed to be a lucky phase for sailors and fishermen, who often waited for a Sea Moon before setting out on hazardous voyages. It never seemed to make any difference, as far as he could tell, but many swore by it.
As the moon turned, it showed its last face, called the Tree, several large craters atop a dark valley that had a vague similarity to a deformed puffwood tree. Farmers eagerly awaited this phase, for it was supposed to be a good moon for planting or reaping. When it appeared at spring or harvest time, great celebrations occurred in farming communities. The fact that the Tree came just before the Death Moon also held grim significance for farmers whose crops stood in the fields after the Tree Moon.
A flitting shadow made him turn his head in alarm, relaxing as a cat loped down the street. Blade pondered the moon that hung above him, feared for its evil portents of death and pestilence. Indeed, there did seem to be some strange coincidences with the Death Moon. The Rout of Ashtolon had occurred under its baleful influence, and the Plague of Bennerald had wiped out the populations of two large towns during a Death Moon. Perhaps, for an assassin, a Death Moon could be seen as a good sign, but Blade had never set any store in such folklore. Clouds scudded across the moon as a slight wind rose, blotting out the grinning grey skull with its dark eyes, then the moment he had been waiting for arrived.
One pair of guards paused, striking flint to light a pipe, their backs turned to the wind, and to him. The other pair walked away. Blade slid off the wall, landed on the grass with a soft thud and sprinted for the smoke tree. Its lower branches offered many handholds, and he climbed swiftly into it as the second pair of guards passed below him.
The burst of movement made his heart pound, and his breath came quicker as he glanced up at the balcony. Now that he was committed, his nerves twanged and tension heightened his senses. This was the excitement that
