The Queen's Blade by T. Southwell Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
    The Queen's warriors had doubtless donned excellent