Weapon of Fear (Weapon of Flesh Trilogy II Book 1)

by Chris A. Jackson

  Hoseph bundled the robe to contain the hair and gazed down at his bare chest. He ran his fingers over the unblemished skin that last night had been split by Mya’s dagger. Duveau’s fleshforge had healed him completely, but there were scars that no spell could heal. An unfamiliar frisson of fear shook him. Not of death, his long-time acquaintance and ally, but of failure.

  I won’t fail, he insisted. I’ve worked too hard, accomplished too much…

  From the bag of possessions he had managed to escape with, he withdrew his old acolyte’s robes. The coarse gray wool scratched his skin, so unlike the smooth felt of his high-priest’s robe, but it didn’t matter. Anonymity was more important than comfort. Flipping the tiny silver skull into his hand, Hoseph invoked Demia’s grace, and the room melted into mist.

  Moments later, he materialized in a luxurious sitting room. The golden morning light glowed through sheer curtains. It was still early. Lady T was not present, but he hadn’t expected her to be up at this hour. Nobles were notoriously late risers. Usually when he visited, he pulled the bell rope and waited until a servant arrived to summon the lady of the house. They were used to his comings and goings. Today he was in no mood to wait. He knew that she would still be abed, so he simply knocked on the door that he assumed led to her bedroom. He’d never seen inside the room, so couldn’t use Demia’s gift to travel there. Doing so would have been dangerous anyway; assassins tended to be jumpy.

  The door to his left opened suddenly, and Hoseph found himself staring down the shaft of a crossbow bolt aimed at his heart. Lady T stood behind that crossbow, her fingers on the trigger and her hair disheveled from sleep. She wore only a silk nightshift, confirming his supposition that she’d still been in bed, but her eyes shone as sharp as the tip of the crossbow bolt that could end his life with the twitch of her finger.

  “Put that down, Tara. We’ve got trouble.”

  “Hoseph?” Her eyes widened, and her fingers lifted off the weapon’s trigger, though it didn’t point away from his heart. “I hardly recognized you! What the hell are you doing here? What’s wrong?”

  Hoseph saw no reason to beat around the bush. “The Grandmaster is dead.”

  “What? How?” She lowered the weapon, the surprise on her face undeniably genuine.

  “The Twailin guildmaster and his Master Hunter.” Hoseph still didn’t know exactly how they’d managed it, but the who certainly grabbed the guildmaster’s attention.

  “Gods of Light and Darkness…” She whirled through the door without another word.

  Hoseph pursed his lips in mild irritation and followed her through a lavish dressing room and into an even more extravagant bedchamber. The bedroom was dim, the heavy curtains still drawn, and Hoseph paused to allow his eyes to adjust. The crossbow thumped down upon the expansive four post bed, and Lady T reached for a robe. With three steps, the priest reached the nearest window and pulled open the curtain. He turned to the glaring guildmaster as she tied the robe tight around her waist.

  “But the emperor’s blademasters—”

  “Also dead.”

  “Five blademasters?” Lady T’s brow furrowed as if she didn’t believe him. “I knew that Lad was a weapon, but…”

  “Mya also possesses some impressive skills. She’s more than we thought.” More than I thought, he admitted to himself.

  “But to kill the Grandmaster…it’s unbelievable. They had blood contracts! They wore rings!”

  “Lad never signed a blood contract. It was the Grandmaster’s plan to force him to sign one at this meeting. He did, however, wear the guildmaster’s ring.” Hoseph nodded solemnly. “I don’t know how they managed to circumvent the magic of their rings, but the Grandmaster is dead. I saw his body.”

  Lady T’s eyes narrowed as she gazed at the priest. “And where were you when this happened?”

  Hoseph waved an impatient hand. “I tried to intervene and was sorely wounded. I went to summon the Imperial Guard.”

  “And you couldn’t,” she wiggled her fingers in the air, “magic him out of harm’s way?”

  Hoseph breathed deep—Blessed shadow of death…—before answering. His conscience had pummeled him with this question all night. He didn’t need her to remind him that he had failed to save his master. “As you said, they wore their guild rings. There was no reason to think that they could lay a hand on the Grandmaster.”

  Lady T frowned, twisting the ties of her robe in thought. “So what are we going to do? The Grandmaster held the reins of the empire. Now those reins are cut. We’ve lost our political influence, our future.”

  “Not so.” Hoseph had already thought this through. “There’s no reason why we can’t gain back everything we’ve lost. Crown Prince Arbuckle put off marrying only to spite his father, but now he’ll have to produce an heir; the nobility will insist.”

  “We don’t know what Arbuckle will do once he’s crowned emperor.”

  “He’s a weak-willed fool, Tara.” Hoseph’s lip curled in derision. “He’s more interested in his books than in ruling. Have you ever known him to take a vested interest in governing this empire or interacting with the nobility?”

  “He hasn’t taken part because he hasn’t been allowed to. We don’t know what he’ll do.”

  “I disagree. Arbuckle has done exactly as he’s been told for his entire life. If he’s told that the people with experience governing this empire are willing to take the reins for him, that he need do nothing but read his books and produce an heir, he’ll do as he’s told. If he needs additional incentive, we still have the provincial dukes under our thumb. They’ll do our bidding, or suffer.”

  “Our bidding?” She cocked an eyebrow at him. “You forget that you’re not in the chain of command, Hoseph. You were the Grandmaster’s intermediary, not his second in command.”

  Blessed shadow of death, sooth me. As much as it chafed him, his position had changed; he would have to cajole and compromise to get his way. But in the end, it would all work out. Hoseph bowed his head to Lady T in silent acknowledgement.

  “Once we have an heir, Arbuckle will be eliminated, and we’ll ensure that the child receives the proper upbringing and training. It worked once, it will work again.”

  “And who will be Grandmaster in the interim?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “I sincerely hope that you don’t think it will be you.”

  So that’s what she’s worried about. He smiled in contrition. “Don’t be ridiculous, Tara. I’m no assassin. My place is in the shadow of power, offering guidance. I consider you the obvious choice, of course.”

  A wry smile spread across the lady’s lips. “Until the royal heir is trained up, then you kill me to give him the ring. I’ll certainly serve as interim Grandmaster, but I’ll not wear the ring, except on a chain around my neck.”

  “That would suffice. By the time the child is grown, you’ll have a duchy and be the Emperor’s closest confidant, if we play our cards right.” The priest rose and gave her a significant look. “But first we have to find and execute these two rebels. They took the Grandmaster’s ring.”

  “They’d have been fools not to. But that raises a new problem. One of them has undoubtedly put the ring on. No assassin can touch the wearer.”

  “I can.” Hoseph lifted a hand, the pearly glow of Demia’s death magic radiating from his palm. “You find them, and I’ll kill them. But be wary. For the attack to succeed, it must be a complete surprise.”

  “Of course it does!” She glowered at him. “Don’t deign to teach me my business, Hoseph!”

  “You haven’t seen them fight, Tara.” There it was again, that trill of fear up his spine. Failure…

  “Some of my people encountered them night before last. I’m aware of their prowess.” Her glare remained undiminished.

  “Very well.” He nodded respectfully. “Find Lad and Mya. They can’t have gone far or fast. They took an injured prisoner with them.”

  “A prisoner? Who?”

  “The captain of the Twailin
Royal Guard.” Hoseph quickly explained the sequence of events that had brought Norwood to Tsing, including Lad’s association with the man while searching for his wife’s killer. “Find the traitors. I’ll inform the provincial guildmasters of the Grandmaster’s death and our plan to pressure the provincial dukes to manipulate Arbuckle.”

  “Can I ask you a question before you flitter away?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why the disguise?”

  “I was…implicated in the emperor’s death. They were going to question me under magical compulsion, which would risk exposure of the guild. I couldn’t let that happen, so I fled. I’m sure they took that as evidence of guilt, and that the entire constabulary is searching for me.”

  Lady T cocked her head and scrutinized him, a lopsided smile on her lips. “I can arrange a better disguise for you.”

  Hoseph stiffened as he drew the hood of the acolyte’s robe over his head. “Though I must forego my high priest’s robes for the immediate future, I would not insult my goddess by disavowing my allegiance altogether.” He looked deliberately around the room, committing the space to memory. If their relationship didn’t work out, he might have to pop in someday…or night. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Clasping the silver skull hidden in the sleeve of his robe, Hoseph called on Demia’s power, and the room melted into shadow around him.

  Arbuckle wasn’t sure which ached more: his hands or his eyes. He flexed his fingers, wincing at the blisters on his palms. He had wielded an axe for more than an hour, along with several knights and squires, demolishing the vile instruments of torture in his father’s interrogation chamber. Afterward, he had watched with grim satisfaction as the doors were sealed and the keys destroyed. There would be no torture during the reign of Tynean Tsing III.

  Except for paperwork, he lamented as he gazed at the parchments strewn across his desk. Ignorant of the intricacies of the running of the empire, Arbuckle had insisted he be brought up to speed. Most details were handled by functionaries, but he had to know how things worked. He’d been studying since he had woken after too few hours of sleep, and his eyes were bleary. A knock at the door startled him to attention.

  Tennison, his father’s secretary—my secretary now—his ever-present ledger and pen at the ready, hurried over and answered it. “The crown prince is busy. I can fit you in…well, not until after he lunches.”

  Arbuckle leapt at the chance to escape the paperwork. “Tennison, who is it?”

  The secretary stepped back into the room, his sharp features pinched and his eyes wide. “Milord Prince, it’s Captain Otar of the Imperial Guard, and Master Corvecosi. I told them—“

  “Relax, Tennison. I’d like very much to speak with them.”

  “Very well, milord.”

  Arbuckle gestured to the seats opposite the desk as his visitors entered. “Gentlemen, come in please. Would you like some blackbrew?” Servants hurried forward.

  “No, thank you, Milord Prince.” Captain Otar bowed stiffly and stood at attention, declining to sit.

  Corvecosi looked longingly at the silver tray laden with cups and a steaming pot, seemingly fought a private battle of propriety versus need, and acquiesced. “Thank you, milord.” He sank into the chair and sipped the dark brew, sighing in bliss. The man looked exhausted.

  “I daresay we’ve all spent a sleepless night.” Arbuckle waved for another cup himself, though his head was pounding already with it. “Captain, you first.”

  Otar remained at attention, his gaze fixed over Arbuckle’s head. “I apologize for not being here last night, Milord Prince. I was out of the palace on personal business and didn’t hear of your father’s death until I returned. You have my condolences.”

  “You can’t be everywhere at once, Captain, and Commander Ithross did very well.” He sipped blackbrew and put down his cup. “Thank you for your condolences, but I’ll not grieve my father’s passing after finding out what a vile creature he truly was.”

  The captain stiffened, but didn’t reply.

  Arbuckle wondered how much Otar knew about the emperor he had pledged his life to serve and protect. Was his discomfort umbrage, or was it unease with the secret he’d kept for so long? “What progress have you made in your investigation?”

  Otar clenched his chiseled jaw. “Not much, milord. We have no identification of the woman found in the interrogation chamber. There’s no record of her arrest or how she came to be in the palace dungeons.”

  “That’s rather strange, don’t you think?”

  “Indeed, milord. According to the guards, no one but the jailor, His Majesty, and his blademasters have entered the dungeons in weeks.”

  “Archmage Duveau contends that the dungeons are not warded against magical intrusion. Do you think she may have been brought in by magical means?”

  “It’s possible, milord.” Otar shrugged. “You would have to ask the archmage about that.”

  “And we have no theories why my father tortured the woman?”

  “The emperor conducted many interrogations, Milord Prince. She may have been a spy. I would not deign to question the actions he took for the sake of the empire.”

  “Yes, few would have confronted my father on any matter.” One incongruent fact suddenly struck him. “You said that only the jailor, emperor, and blademasters have entered the dungeons in weeks, but Hoseph was there when the emperor was attacked, inside the dungeon.”

  “I understand from Ithross’ report, milord, that High Priest Hoseph disappeared from the dungeon to evade questioning. They assumed he used some kind of spell.”

  “Invocation,” Corvecosi said with a mild smile. “Priests employ invocations, not spells.”

  The muscles at Otar’s jaw bunched and relaxed. “Perhaps he entered using the same invocation.”

  “And maybe he brought the woman in with him,” Arbuckle mused. “His disappearance certainly makes him appear guilty of something.”

  “I regret to inform you that he is still missing. His rooms at the temple were searched, and a guard was stationed there in case he returns.”

  “Anything else, Captain?”

  “There are some…irregularities in the palace visitors’ log for yesterday.” Otar’s eyes flicked to Arbuckle’s for a moment before reassuming their distant gaze. “A Captain Norwood of the Twailin Royal Guard, along with his sergeant, were granted an audience with His Majesty, but there’s no record of either of them leaving. The carriage they arrived in is still in the stables.”

  “I remember them.” Arbuckle frowned. “The captain wanted to see my father about a matter of security, and insisted that they be alone. I guess they were right about the danger. Or…maybe they were the assassins. Have you tried to find them?”

  “Of course, Milord!” Otar sounded put out. “We’ve searched the palace, and I alerted Chief Constable Dreyfus to seek them. We’re also watching all the city gates for them, as well as your father’s assassins from the descriptions provided by High Priest Hoseph.”

  Arbuckle cock an eyebrow. “The descriptions he provided right before he vanished into thin air? Do you think we can trust that?”

  “They are suspect, but it’s all we have to go on.”

  Arbuckle sighed. So many questions and so few answers. “Very well, Captain. Master Corvecosi, you mentioned some peculiarities at the scene. Anything new?”

  Corvecosi nodded. “Several things, Milord Prince. The first is that the unfortunate woman—she was young, by the way—died not from her wounds, nor by being eased into the afterlife, as Master Hoseph said.”

  “How did she die then?”

  “Poison. The same poison that killed the blademaster I showed you.”

  “So…” Arbuckle tried to make sense of what the healer was saying, “…the same assassins who apparently killed the blademasters and the emperor, also killed the woman he was torturing?”

  “So it would seem, Milord Prince.” Corvecosi sighed and rubbed his eyes. “There were some other clues,
milord, that suggest the prowess of the assassins.” The healer pulled from his pocket a slender metal spike. “This was completely embedded in a blademaster’s skull.”

  “What is that?” Arbuckle peered at the four-inch steel spike.

  “An implement of torture, milord. We found others scattered about, and one in the thigh bone of the woman.”

  “Gods…” Arbuckle’s stomach roiled.

  “This one was thrown or magically propelled with extreme force. Inhuman force, one might say.”

  “Inhuman? How?”

  “Magically enhanced strength is not unheard of, milord.” Corvecosi gestured to Arbuckle’s blademasters. “Your own bodyguards are blessed with it by their deity. These assassins must have had some kind of magic to accomplish such feats.”

  Arbuckle leaned back in his chair and blew out a frustrated breath. “So, these unknown assassins have not only the ability to appear and disappear, but also inhuman strength. What next?”

  “Aside from those in the…” Corvecosi glanced at Captain Otar, “interrogation chamber, four other bodies were found elsewhere in the dungeon.”

  Arbuckle sat up straight, his eyes snapping to Otar’s. “What? Who else was killed?”

  “Your pardon for not mentioning it earlier, Milord Prince,” Captain Otar said with a bow. “They were just prisoners, by the look of them, though they wore simple smocks rather than prisoners’ attire. They were found in a small room at the far end of the dungeon, behind a locked door. The room was outfitted as a dining chamber, but there was no food to be found, and the men appeared to have been ill-fed for some time.”

  “How did they die? Master Corvecosi?”

  Corvecosi shrugged. “I don’t know. They bore no wounds, and they weren’t poisoned. The remaining prisoners are alive, but in ill health, malnourished and infested with various forms of vermin.”

  Arbuckle clenched his jaw, recalling the poor wretches he’d seen. “Please see that they’re cared for. And I want every square inch of that filthy place cleaned.”

  The healer nodded. “I took it upon myself to assign that task to my apprentices.”