Blade's Edge Read online

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  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  Copyright ©2009 by Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  First published in 2009, 2009

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  Blade's Edge

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  About the Author

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

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  Sometimes getting in bed with the enemy gives you the edge you need...

  For Zonan Silvergard Commander Taryn Penthes, an assignment to escort a group of Bariani diplomats seems routine—until the party is ambushed. And when she realizes the attacker she just killed is the Zonan Crown Prince's lover, political winds shift. Now she's in a race to get the surviving diplomat to safety—while using whatever means necessary to find out what he knows.

  Blade Von Stassos isn't all that surprised at the assassination attempt a mere fifteen minutes after he arrives in the Zonan capital. What does surprise him is the ferocious, deadly skill with which Taryn protects him. With no choice but to follow her lead, he tries to ignore the instincts telling him he's finally found a worthy consort in her. Which comes as a surprise, since he's not long on trust when it comes to women or Zonans.

  Forced into an uneasy alliance, Blade and Taryn first seduce each other for information, unleashing sizzling attraction that can't be denied, even if they're each other's worst enemy. As the balance of power shifts around them, the only way to stay alive is to find out who wants them dead. And why...

  Warning: Contains one 150-pound housecat, political intrigue, cave sex, one homicidally inclined royal, more political intrigue, monkish eyeliner, off-planet political intrigue, blasters, and fur blankets. Author is not responsible for a sudden desire to adopt big cats, have sex underground, or purchase fur blankets.

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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520

  Macon GA 31201

  Blade's Edge

  Copyright © 2009 by Val Roberts

  ISBN: 978-1-60504-663-1

  Edited by Angela James

  Cover by Kanaxa

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: September 2009

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  Blade's Edge

  Val Roberts

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Dedication

  This is for Lord Robert and the Moxie Quartet.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter One

  Some things just never changed: Zona was the only part of the planet Timarron still free of plastic and rivets, pesticides and pollution, and its neighboring giant, Barian, couldn't bring its collective self to send a female diplomat to a matriarchal culture.

  Silvergard Commander Taryn Penthes watched her breath steam in the frigid air of early spring as a group of muscular men exited Eastgate's Internal Transit Authority door shouldering light duffels. Duffels, one each? Diplomatic hangers-on carrying their own luggage? What in hell?

  "Those aren't diplomats,” escaped her lips in a disbelieving murmur. She counted ten human males as a frown pulled at her scar. Nine of them moved like they were used to combat, though not with sabers; the last one looked like a valet. Balance and gesture were off slightly, almost as if they were more used to some other kind of weapon, but all of the nine moved like they knew how to fight with bare hands if need be. And there wasn't a scrap of lace or a ruffle in sight, unless she counted the elbow-length capelets attached to their coats. “Those are Rangers, or I'm a Bariani concubine."

  But no, they weren't that, either. The worsted superfine cloth and close tailoring of their greatcoats spoke of the kind of money that wasn't spent on civilian togs by military men, especially military men who spent the majority of their time slogging through the ass-end of the backcountry like Rangers did. And no self-respecting Barian Ranger would wear shiny, knee-high boots. Had Barian sent mercs into Zona?

  Or maybe this was their hare-brained way of trying to blend in with Zonan locals. Her snort of derision puffed away from her face in a cloud. The group of men had stopped some ten feet from the door with their backs to a blank brick wall, which meant it was her turn to move. She pushed away from the livery brick where she'd been waiting.

  They had grouped themselves in a loose knot around the tallest, with his long, shaggy mane of dark-brown hair standing out in the small herd of short-cropped brown-blond heads. He topped the next man by a good four inches, maybe more, and was obviously the alpha in this pack of alphas. And of course, he spotted her movement first and focused on her with a coldly calculating expression. His face smoothed out almost immediately and he seemed to lose several points of IQ in the process.

  At the requisite five paces away, she stopped, bowed, and waited for the rest of the party to notice. “Gentlemen, I am your guide to Balsom and the temples of Zona. Which of you is the negotiator?"

  The tall one stepped forward, as hard-bodied as all the rest of the fighters, and verified her assumption.

  "I am Commander Penthes of the Silvergard,” she continued. “You may call me Commander, and I will address you as Negotiator. I will address members of your escort as Guardsman. This is for your own protection, Negotiator, and does not denote any inherent dehumanization of any member of your party. Do you understand?"

  "Isn't Penthes the name of the royal house?” he questioned, amending that unsettling stare by raising one eyebrow. An eyebrow lighter in color than his hair, she noticed. At least the question was normal, even if everything else about them was bizarre.

  "House Penthes is large, and only one line among the many holds the Matriarch's crown.” She said it with a smile, even though it pulled the scarred skin that signified she was not of that line. Not anymore. The smile seemed to draw his eyes to the scar, and he looked puzzled somehow, along with something else.

  "But you are related to the Matriarch,” he persisted. Something else unusual. Normally they were either clueless enough to accept the size of the family as an explanation, or well-briefed enough to keep their mouths shut.

  "Yes, I am,” she confirmed, “along with a few hundred other people in the city of Balsom. The Penthes family has been aro
und for a long time.” Two hundred and ninety-six standard years, to be exact. “If you'll come this way, Negotiator, I have a carriage waiting that should be able to accommodate you."

  "Do you have a first name?” he asked, still staring at her cheek. The frown had traveled upward to his eyebrows, drawing them together in a wrinkle of skin and betraying his intelligence again.

  "As far as outland guests of the Matriarch are concerned, I do not.” She spun on the ball of her right foot and started back the way she had come. He definitely had not been briefed if he hadn't known that. She strained her ears and could hear the sound of one of the others whispering, but couldn't make out the words. Finally, the group fell in behind her as she marched back to the livery, where she'd been waiting.

  Three years she'd been on diplomatic escort duty, and three negotiators had been quietly slipped into the Lady Palace. He would be her fourth, and hopefully last. Escort was boring, but she'd done worse. It was so very much better than being “Prince Taryn of Zona,” and it was considerably better than being dead.

  She dismissed the unneeded baggage cart and the ten were settled in seats of some variety within a couple of minutes. She mounted Chuffer, the old dapple-gray who had done this for enough years that he could have made the long walk without her. Nevertheless, she patted his neck as she adjusted her weapon for riding. When she was ready, she nodded at the carriage driver—one she didn't recognize so he must be new—and set off at a walk through the thoroughfare at the edge of the gate plaza.

  When they entered the marketplace, she glanced over her shoulder again, to check that the carriage was keeping pace with her, and got a shock. The negotiator had climbed out onto the box next to the driver and sat there looking more like a guard than anything else. The different angle of view made her notice another odd thing; the lower half of his face was lighter-skinned than the tanned portion around his eyes. Either he spent a great deal of time with the lower half of his face swathed, or a beard had shielded the skin.

  "Weird,” she whispered to herself. Was he the real Bariani negotiator? As her horse ambled through the market, she mulled the thought. This “diplomat” could disguise himself as a caravan guard all he liked, but he was still on a fool's errand if he thought the Matriarch or the Crown Prince would ever admit anything or forgive anything. That she knew from hard experience.

  Blade watched the nameless female finger the fine scar during her one glance at him from the worn saddle as the overage nag plodded through the marketplace. She was tall for her kind, with a delicate bone structure that belied her broad shoulders, and titian hair tightly contained in a braid kept close to her head.

  Gods, what a time to switch obsessions: All the while he'd been supposed to be screening potential wives in the social whirl last summer, he'd been consumed with the Zonan economic situation. Now that he was here to do something about Zonan relations, his subconscious decided it was time to get serious about finding a mate. If a Zonan Silvergarder fascinated him, though, he might require psychiatric help. Even if this one carried herself with elegance worthy of the duchess of Northshield, if not the queen of Barian.

  "She might be less nervous if you'd stop staring at her like you're considering what wine would go with her charred flesh,” Galen murmured next to his ear. “Silvergard officers aren't your usual type, Blade, though I have to agree that taming that one could be fun.” Of course, Galen would have noticed, because he noticed everything.

  Blade grunted as a reply. He was observant in his own way, but his way was usually wondering why Barian's Luddite neighbors had suddenly started raiding mountain villages for food, not checking hemlines on ball gowns, when the ridiculous things could be said to have hems.

  Ladies weren't his field. And yet, something about this woman bothered him. Since when did mid-level officers carry themselves like royalty? Since when did they have the impeccable tailoring to make midnight-blue khakis look sexy as they skimmed every perfect curve? He stopped short at the observation. Not good. Not good at all. He was supposed to be scanning the city, not the escort.

  The market in Balsom was sparsely populated for a trade day, and that made him suppress another frown. Sure, it was early and it was damned cold, but there didn't appear to be much for sale. A comparison trip to a Krystale junk market the week before gave him a baseline, but even allowing for the difference in the economies and population sizes, things were looking just a bit grim in Balsom.

  Of course, they'd been much grimmer in the Jags.

  He looked for more evidence in the market stalls they passed, ignoring the pseudo-Renaissance ambiance. Had any of his stuff made its way to the capital? A sign of anything he'd left for them to find would lessen the guilt.

  Unfortunately, even rats were hard-pressed to eat well in Balsom's main marketplace, though a couple of the grain bags looked vaguely familiar enough to allow him hope.

  Now he had to convince their political establishment that a little technology wasn't necessarily evil if it kept children from starving to death or gave the Matriarch's subjects clean water to drink, even if it hadn't been invented by a woman two hundred years in the past. Easiest thing in the worlds, right?

  A woman. His eyes were pulled back to the Silvergarder like a compass needle to the pole. Even Dar was starting to nag him about getting married, but every year the debutantes were getting younger and less substantial. How was he going to find a future queen in a gaggle of idiot teenagers when he was closing in on thirty-five? He allowed his gaze to move down her back to the long, strong legs peeking out from the sides of her cloak as she straddled the horse, and he wondered what they would look like in one of those barely there evening dresses. Or better yet, straddling him.

  He almost lapsed into fantasy, but the so-called carriage hit a patch of loose cobbles and jolted him from the base of his spine up. Right. He was supposed to be thinking about Zona. Cobblestone streets, a massive maintenance problem and entirely unnecessary, but Zona couldn't be all bad if it produced women like their guide on a regular basis. The end of her braid brushed her belt over the back-slung scabbard and was at least half as thick as his wrist all the way down, the kind of hair a man could lose himself in for days, exploring the silky soft locks and what they covered.

  She glanced again to check on the wagon as they exited the marketplace, interrupting his train of thought as he caught another glimpse of the arc of stretched, white tissue on her left cheek. That scar was perhaps the weirdest thing in a week of the weird, because it did nothing to mar her beauty, or the eerie similarity between her profile and that on the hexagonal metal coins they'd received in exchange for their credit wands. He shook off the preoccupation and glanced back himself.

  The wagon turned off the main thoroughfare, bringing Blade's attention back to the front. The Silvergarder was nowhere in sight, and the new street was a dead-end just wide enough for the wagon.

  Trouble. Planned trouble.

  "Fece,” escaped his lips as his pulse went into overdrive and adrenaline coursed through his system. He snatched the reins away from the driver and was mildly surprised to feel a dagger scrape along the hidden vambrace on his left forearm.

  The driver fell to the cobbles after bouncing off a brick wall with a scream and a crunch before Blade even realized he had kick-shoved with his left foot while hauling on the reins. The horses finally got the message after the wagon's left front wheel had severed the driver's spinal cord, bucking the box's left side up at least a foot so that he had to brace himself to stay seated.

  Then he heard the distinctive thwupp, thupp of a pair of Zonan crossbow bolts and a gurgle. His men poured over the back of the wagon as he fought to get the horses out of the killing zone. It might deprive them of cover, but the wagon would get in their way for the hand-to-hand he knew was coming. The musical sound of a laser pistol firing behind him signaled Bariani counterfire that probably took out the snipers, but Blade was still in the wagon, and if he'd planned an assassination attempt, he would have had more
than one backup plan on the ground—one of the few benefits of an education in ground-war tactics. He grabbed the knife tangled in his coat and slid off the seat as the horses came up against the end of the alley.

  There were at least a dozen attackers, all with straight Zonan sabers, most still on horseback. The valet and the new kid were skewered to the back of the wagon seat, easy targets. One of his men went down with steel poking out of the back of his coat as Blade watched, and hoofbeats approached from the main street. The Silvergarder, or reinforcements? Did it matter? If it was her, she'd missed the sound of the wagon in seconds. If she'd been part of the plan, she would have been here already.

  Turning back to the wagon, he tried to find the dead guard's katana in a hail of grunts, the clash of metal on metal and other less savory noises that signaled people dying. The damned thing wasn't there. A particularly nearby clang made him look up to see a Zonan saber still settling onto cobbles as its previous owner stared at the mass of seared flesh and smoking cloth where his chest used to be. Bless Galen's paranoia. Blade was about to be armed, and he felt more like himself than he had since agreeing to this errand. Sometimes it sucked to be him.

  "Maris—packs, all of them,” Blade barked as he rolled to scoop up the fried assassin's saber and waded in. “Galen, horses.” He swung the blade up just in time to block someone's attempt to sever his head from his shoulders.

  "But, my lord—” Galen started to protest, letting his guard down for a millisecond too long, and Blade had to move fast. He sliced across his opponent's throat and skewered the man about to behead his chief of staff in less time than it took to realize he was going to do that. Out of the corner of one eye, he noticed the Silvergarder was keeping up, two male corpses at her feet and a third about to join them if she could get her blade out of that eye socket in time. A flash of reddened metal told him she had as he scanned the gory scene for more attackers. She was left-handed.