Master of the Dance by T C Southwell Page A

the Cotti. He glanced around at the silent throng, then measured the chamber, noting that the floor had been swept clean. Ice had planned this encounter, probably from the moment Dravis had hired him. The temptation to pit his skills against a Jashimari assassin with a legendary reputation had clearly been too great for him to resist.
    Ice poured two cups of wine and held one out to Blade with a smile. Blade took it and waited for the Cotti assassin to drink some of his before tasting it, finding it a sweet red wine, the sort he preferred. Ice's smile widened at Blade's caution.
    "I wouldn't drug you. What would be the point? I may as well have killed you in your room while you were unconscious. I must say, you're a lot smaller than I had imagined."
    Blade shrugged. "It makes my job easier."
    "Yes, I suppose so, but it must be a disadvantage in a duel."
    "I haven't found that."
    "Dravis said that you killed King Shandor and seven princes, quite impressive. What's your tally?"
    Blade sipped his wine. "I believe it was about two hundred and fifty when I retired, so it would be a few more than that now."
    "There must be a lot of work for assassins in Jashimari."
    "From that, I assume that yours is considerably less."
    "I'm half your age. It's hardly a fair comparison."
    Blade drained his cup and tossed it to Oben, who fumbled the catch and dropped it with a shrill clatter. "Do you intend to bore me to death with idle chatter, or shall we get on with this?"
    Ice slugged back his wine and held out the empty goblet for Oben, who took it and retreated. "I want the effect of the sleep gas to be completely worn off, to be fair."
    "It has."
    "Good." Ice turned to the shadowy figures, and one held out a pair of glittering boot blades. The Cotti assassin gave them to Blade, who examined them, finding that they were his, taken from his pack in the palace. The assassins and elders who made up the crowd spread out along the walls, leaving as much clear space as possible in the middle of the room, and Oben came forward to remove the chair. Blade bent and strapped on the lethal footgear, then straightened and stripped off his jacket, under which he wore the tight vest traditionally worn at Dances.
    When Ice removed his jacket, he revealed the ornate, gold-studded belt that only a Master of the Dance could wear, as Blade had expected. Naturally Dravis had hired the best assassin in Jadaya, one whose ego matched his prowess. Blade bent and pressed his forehead to his knees to stretch the tendons in the back of his legs, then swung his arms and twisted to limber up. He made an experimental jump to test the weight of his boots with the blades attached, for the extra weight always made it more difficult. Walking around, he stamped his feet and lifted his legs high to get used to it, his metal-shod feet clacking on the stone.
    It had been a long time since he had completed the Dance of Death in all its complexity, but his recent exercise at the palace had increased his fitness. Still, he was not certain he could defeat Ice, and even if he did, the duel would be a bloody one. Injuries were inevitable, and quite possibly lethal. The prospect angered him, firing the bitterness that had ruled his life for so long, and his hatred of Cotti flared to new heights. If Ice had the advantage of youth and ambition, Blade had a lifetime of enmity and resentment to fuel his muscles and chill his mind to icy calmness and clarity. The Dance of Death as an armed duel had been forbidden decades ago, because one or both combatants inevitably died of their wounds.
    Blade stood with his head bowed, steeling himself to ignore the pain and the frightening sight of so much of his own blood. The fact that he placed little value on his life, and courted death at every opportunity, worked in his favour now. He would fight with reckless abandon, while Ice would be more concerned about staying alive. The things about him that Ice did not know would work against the Cotti