“Why not?”
“We don’t know, Milord Prince.”
Arbuckle shook his head in stunned silence. Mysterious assassins, dead blademasters, vanishing priests…what next? “What else is peculiar, Master Corvecosi?”
The dark man gestured to the blood pooled beneath the hanging cage. “I at first assumed that this blood was from the emperor, being so close to his body. Upon closer examination, however, it appears that someone was recently restrained in this device.” He touched one of the gruesome screws. “This blood is fresh, yet there is no corpse here bearing wounds so inflicted.”
“A rescue?” Arbuckle’s mind whirled. “What prisoner would precipitate such a rescue?”
The healer shrugged. “That is an interesting theory.” He strode to one of the corpses, apparently unfazed by all the blood. “And here, this man, unlike all the others, has barely a mark on him.” Kneeling, he pressed a plump hand to the blademaster’s brow and muttered under his breath. “Yes, as I suspected, he was killed with a lethal toxin.”
“Toxin?” Arbuckle knew from his reading that poisoned weapons were commonly used in some cultures. “You’re sure?”
“I’m quite sure, milord.” He rose and nodded his head absently. “Quite sure.”
Arbuckle had no reason to doubt him. He had always liked Corvecosi, one of the few imperial attendants not stifled by formality or unduly cowed by the late emperor’s imperious attitude. As a boy, the prince had appreciated the man’s quiet bedside manner, his cool hand on a fevered forehead, gentle words, and the sense of peace that followed his visits. Evidently, there was more to the healer’s art than mere knowledge of illness.
“Continue your examinations, Master Corvecosi. I want to know how everyone here died. Use whatever resources you—” Turning, ready to be away from all this death, he spied one more victim, and choked on his words.
What lay on the stone slab didn’t look human—at least, not anymore. Arbuckle stared at the corpse, willing himself to believe that the person had been dead when the skin had been peeled away in strips, the joints twisted, the bones exposed, the pearly nerves bared by careful dissection. But deep in his soul, he knew that she had been alive. This was his father’s depravity flayed and displayed for all to see.
“Good Gods of Light…” Arbuckle strode to the side of the table, heedless for the first time of the blood. There however, with the scent of death in his nostrils, staring down at her tortured body, bile burned the back of his throat. “Oh…” Arbuckle turned away and fell to his knees, heaving painfully, as if expelling any hope that his father had been a decent man. A hand touched his shoulder.
“Milord Prince, you must go.” Ithross waved, and blademasters came forward.
“No!” Arbuckle wished with all his might that he could retreat to his room and his books—his sanctuary—but he had already disgraced himself enough. This was the emperor’s doing. Only a son could atone for a father’s sins.
Wiping his chin with his sleeve, Arbuckle lurched up to stand over the slab where the poor woman lay. Had she been beautiful? Had someone loved her? Were they waiting for her to come home? He welcomed the rage that burned away the last thread of feeling that he had for his father. It straightened his back and stiffened his resolve.
“Your cloak, Sir Fineal.” Arbuckle held out a hand, and the knight immediately unclasped his cloak and handed it over. The crown prince carefully draped the deep-blue cloth over the woman’s mutilated corpse. Bowing his head, he mumbled a prayer that the gods would ease her tortured soul. “Master Corvecosi, take care of her.”
Master Corvecosi bowed. “As you wish, Milord Prince. I’ll also see that your father’s body is properly attend—”
“No!” Arbuckle glared one last time at the heap of dead flesh that had been his father, then looked deliberately away. “Divest him of any accoutrements of his former office, then burn his corpse and cast the ashes down the nearest cesspit!”
The crowd shifted and Corvecosi seemed struck dumb, standing with his mouth gaping. Only Ithross summoned the courage to speak.
“Milord Prince!” the commander stammered. “To disrespect His Majesty’s body would be…tantamount to treason.”
“No, Commander Ithross, that is treason!” Arbuckle pointed to the shrouded form on the slab, his hand shaking with rage. “That is an abomination!”
“But, Milord Prince! The nobles… They will expect a royal funeral.”
“Then we’ll bury an empty casket! I’ll not have the House of Tsing or the soil of this empire further contaminated by his corpse.”
“Milord Prince, your father was—”
“My father was a living piece of shit, Sir Fineal!” Arbuckle rounded on the knight, biting back his rage, though he could not suppress his disgust. “It’s only fitting that he spend eternity amongst his peers.”
Ignoring the shocked murmurs, Prince Arbuckle headed for the door. A last thought stopped him in his tracks, and he turned back.
“After Master Corvecosi’s investigation is complete and the bodies have been removed with all due reverence, send for me. I’ll see every vile machine in this room destroyed and the door sealed forever. Is that clear, Commander Ithross? Sir Fineal?”
“Crystal clear, Milord Prince.” Fineal bowed low, then rose with a grim smile on his chiseled features. “It will be my pleasure.”
Ithross glanced about the room in disgust and nodded. “It will be done as you command, Milord Prince.”
“Good.” Arbuckle turned and strode from the room. Blademasters took position around him, forming a five-pointed cordon as they matched his stride. Five blademasters—the emperor’s contingent.
I’m going to be emperor. The thought was nothing new, but had always been suffixed by “someday.” Now the inevitability of his future came rushing in, and with it, one more dreadful realization. I’m not ready for this!
Ready or not, he had no choice in the matter. As he mounted the stairs, Arbuckle swore to all the Gods of Light that he would be a better emperor than Tsing’s last.
Mya toweled her hair dry, barely able to keep her arms aloft, so weak was she from the evening’s trials. She cast the towel aside in frustration, and sat on the bed.
“Quit bitching, Mya. You’re alive.” Few people could survive being stabbed in the gut—Twice!—nearly eviscerated, and hacked from shoulder to chest. Blood loss had left her weak, but her runic tattoos had healed her wounds. Only an injury to the heart or decapitation could truly end her life. Her heart ached, but not from a sword thrust. “Alive…and alone.”
Forcing herself up, she grabbed her wrappings, the long strip of enchanted black cloth that she wore under her clothes. She used them to hide her tattoos, her secret, but the magically self-repairing cloth had saved her life only hours ago, holding her chest together long enough for her to heal before she bled to death. She submerged them in the murky water filling the tub, and began to scrub.
It had cost her a silver half-crown to convince the proprietor of the Prickly Pair to send up a tub and a meal at this late hour. The water and the food had been tepid, but plentiful. She was still a little light-headed; it would take time to recover from the blood loss. The memories of the fight, she was sure, would take much longer to banish.
Sitting back on her heels, she focused on a pleasanter memory…kissing Lad in the carriage. Mya closed her eyes as she remembered the warmth of his lips, the scent of him. A little smile twitched her lips, then fell. He had kissed her back, just a little, but it was a kiss goodbye. Lad was out of Tsing by now, and out of the guild, headed back to Twailin and his family. She doubted that she would ever see him again. Her heart ached anew.
Don’t, Mya! Love was a weakness, and weakness would only get her killed.
Pulling the wrappings from the tub, she wrung them out and draped them on the back of a chair to dry. Better to focus on their other kiss, on Lad’s betrayal. Her cheeks flushed as she remembered how he’d tricked her, letting her think that he shared
her feelings, then slipping the Grandmaster’s ring on her finger.
Mya held up her hand and examined the ring: obsidian dark against her pale skin, filigreed gold bright in the lamplight. It was beautiful, she had to admit. More distinctive than the band of unadorned obsidian that she had worn as Master Hunter, and more ornate than the black-and-gold ring that Lad had worn as Twailin Guildmaster. There were six guildmaster’s rings scattered across the empire. This ring was unique. There was only one Grandmaster of Assassins.
And that’s me. With a scoffing laugh, she leaned wearily against the tub and closed her eyes.
“Godsdamned Grandmaster… Lad’s crazy if he thinks I can do this.” She tried to be angry with him, but knew she couldn’t lay all the blame at his door. She’d chased power her whole life. To a frightened girl on her own, joining the Assassins Guild made sense. Strength, skill, and power meant safety. She had been ambitious and ruthless, prepared to sacrifice whoever got in her way.
Until I met Lad.
“You’re the perfect Grandmaster”, he had told her. Mya didn’t believe it for a second. “You think like an assassin, but you have a good heart.” Lad was naïve. That was one reason she’d fallen in love with him.
“He has no idea what’s in my heart.” Mya heaved to her feet. Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she stopped and stared. Her dark tattoos writhed in the lamplight, a tapestry of magic engraved on her flesh from neck to wrist to ankles. They’d kept her alive tonight. Imbuing her with strength and speed, sharpening her senses, and healing grievous wounds, they made her nearly invincible. They also made her a monster.
“No wonder Lad sent you packing.”
Stop it! If Mya expected to survive, she had to forget about her unrequited feelings for Lad and do what she did best.
“Think like an assassin, Mya.” Whirling away from the mirror, she went to her trunk and rifled through the contents, drawing out a comfortable silk shirt, a pair of supple trousers, and clean scanties. She considered her situation while she dressed.
Lad had killed Emperor Tynean Tsing II. She had no doubt that a massive manhunt for the emperor’s killers would ensue, that descriptions of her and Lad were being distributed to the city guard. Of course, that led to her next problem.
The emperor of Tsing had also been the Grandmaster of the Assassins Guild. In helping Lad to kill the Grandmaster, she had cut the head off a very large snake. Now she was the head of the snake, the master of a guild that didn’t even know she existed. Could she control it, or would it turn its fangs on her? That would most likely depend on one person.
Lady T…
The Tsing guildmaster had not been overly impressed with either Lad or Mya, but the woman had seemed frightened when she escorted them to their meeting in the palace dungeons, giving Mya the distinct feeling that Lady T feared the Grandmaster. Not surprising, considering what a monster the man had been. So, would the lady welcome Mya as a liberator or revile her for a usurper?
Mya began to pace, and to think. Everything depended on how Lady T reacted. The assassins of the Tsing guild would follow her lead, and Mya had no doubt that the provincial guilds would fall in line behind the Tsing guild, the strongest of them all.
And if she doesn’t accept me?
Bound by blood contracts signed when they joined the guild, no guild assassin could even attempt to harm the wearer of the Grandmaster’s ring. Nothing, however, prevented them from hiring someone outside the guild to kill her. A chill ran up Mya’s spine as she realized that the guild wouldn’t have to hire an outsider to kill her.
“Hoseph…” Glancing around the room as if just saying his name might summon the priest, Mya swallowed hard.
Hoseph had called himself the Right Hand of Death for two very good reasons. The priest had been the Grandmaster’s intermediary with the guildmasters, able to travel vast distances in an instant. He had also been the Grandmaster’s personal executioner, able to kill with a single touch of magic. Mya had her own experience with his less lethal magic, the pulse of darkness that had filled her with utter despair, incapacitating her with every dark act and thought of her life. Mya’s past was full of darkness. If not for Lad, she would have died without raising a finger to defend herself, so overwhelmed had she been by Hoseph’s spell.
Admittedly, such skills would be invaluable to her as Grandmaster.
If I could control him…
But how would Hoseph regard her unseemly ascendance? After serving an Imperial Grandmaster, would he submit to her authority? Not likely. Even if he did agree to serve her, could she ever trust him? Hoseph wasn’t a member of the guild. He could kill her, and probably would try if for no other reason than revenge. Until she knew for sure, she would assume the worst. Hoseph had no way to know she wore the Grandmaster’s ring, but he’d find out soon enough.
Then he’ll try to kill me.
“He can’t know where I am,” she murmured as her eyes flicked to the shadowy corners of the room.
Neither she nor Lad had detected anyone following them, but this was a person who could materialize out of thin air. Underestimating Hoseph could prove lethal. She glanced at the band on her finger. Could he somehow track the ring itself? Obsidian and gold danced in the lamplight as panic trembled her. She shoved it aside. Exhausted and blood-weary, her fears were easily roused. She needed sleep, but sleeping rendered her vulnerable.
“What I need is someone to watch over me…someone I can trust.” Unfortunately, the only person she trusted had just ridden out of Tsing in a carriage bound for Twailin.
Mya stopped pacing and dug her two favorite daggers out of her clothes trunk. She scraped one of the blades along her arm, pleased to see tiny hairs fall to the floor. They were clean and sharp. If Hoseph popped in, she should be quick enough to gut him. If I’m not asleep.
“Sleep lightly, Mya, or wake up dead.” She blew out the lamp, backed into a corner, and slid down the wall, her daggers ready.
Feeling slightly safer in the dark, her nervous energy waned even as her doubts waxed. Was this to be how she spent the rest of her life, hiding in the dark, afraid of death hidden in every shadow? What choice did she have?
“Have someone cut it off.” Lad’s simplistic solution came to her, and she seriously considered the option.
Mya raised one of her daggers and placed the edge at the joint of the finger that wore the ring. She drew the razor edge across her flesh, and blood welled from the tiny cut. No pain… She tried to apply pressure, but her hand wouldn’t respond. She couldn’t do it herself. The ring’s magic wouldn’t allow her to take it off or even cut it free. She wiped the blade on her trousers and sucked the blood from the already healed cut.
“That doesn’t mean I can’t walk down to the kitchen in the morning and pay the cook to do it.” The simple solution steadied her. She had an out. She could, quite literally, cut and run.
Mya had a choice to make: flee, take control of the guild, or destroy it. It was that simple. Regardless of her final choice, however, she had to survive until morning. Cold resolve steeled her fear, and she realized that Lady T, Hoseph, and the guild also had a choice to make.
“Join me or die.”
Chapter II
Hoseph woke to darkness and the dry, musty scent of parchment and leather. His back ached and he was chilled from sleeping on the stone floor with only a threadbare blanket, but he took no heed. Demia’s chosen cared not for luxuries. What he coveted were life’s intangibles: power and influence, order and control.
Despite the utter darkness, he knew innately that it was morning and time to rise. Calling on Demia’s gifts, a pale glow emanated from his palm. He rose, stepped to the table and struck a match, lighting the lamp there and illuminating his surroundings. The room was not large, and bookcases packed with old leather-bound volumes and racks of scrolls made it seem even smaller. The history of the Assassins Guild was recorded here, unnumbered years of murder and conspiracy. This was also the repository of the blood contracts. Ever
y assassin signed one, binding themselves forever to the guild, submitting to their masters’ control, signing their lives over to be spent if necessary. This secret room—with the death of the Grandmaster, known only to Hoseph—represented the power and influence that he wielded as the Right Hand of Death…power and influence that had been disrupted by Lad and Mya. Anger and frustration tensed his muscles and clouded his thoughts.
“Blessed shadow of death, sooth me…” Hoseph recited the mantra until his pulse slowed and his mind eased. Dealing with death every day had taught him temperance. Hoseph hated being forced into hasty action as he had last night. The threat of questioning under compulsion had forced his flight, rendering him guilty in the eyes of the imperial guard. He’d fled a second time an hour later when he heard soldiers approaching his room in Demia’s temple where he had been gathering his meager belongings.
What he needed now was a concise plan of action. The first step, of course, was to change his appearance, for he had little doubt the city guard would be looking for him. Of course, a disguise wouldn’t fool his fellow priests and priestesses. They knew his soul. Demia, sorter of souls, gifted all her clergy with the ability to see the peculiar ethereal essence that made each person unique. This talent—useful when comforting the dying during their transition to the afterlife—made disguises superfluous. He would not be able to go back to his own temple until his name was cleared.
Doffing his distinctive crimson robe, Hoseph spread it on the floor. Then he selected a gleaming razor from his bundle of personal items, and stropped it to a fine edge. It had been decades since he had performed the ablutions of an acolyte, but old habits returned easily. Kneeling on the robe, he deftly shaved his head, letting the shorn hair fall. Unfortunately, he lacked water, resulting in a few nicks and cuts. He would have to stock the room with some essentials until he resolved this situation. When that was done, he shaved his face.
Weapon of Fear (Weapon of Flesh Trilogy II Book 1) Page 3
