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

by Chris A. Jackson

  “And you think Hoseph won’t notice?” Lady T donned a robe from a clothes tree beside her bed. She looked less terrified now, but her eyes still followed the bloody spear.

  “Frankly, no I don’t. He’s too busy trying to murder the crown prince to notice what’s happening on the streets!” Mya stopped and regarded the woman. Something didn’t fit here. “If you fear him so much, why don’t you kill him? You’re an assassin!”

  Lady T folded her arms and pursed her lips in annoyance. Mya wondered if the pursed lips were one of the lady’s tells, and made a mental note to watch for it.

  “And if I miss, I’m dead.”

  “Then set him up for me.” Mya dropped the bloody spear onto the fluffy white coverlet, earning a glare from the guildmaster. “All I need to know is where and when.”

  “He flits around like smoke on the wind. I don’t know when he’ll pop in or where he sleeps. In order to set him up, I’ve got to make him trust me. That’ll take time.”

  “Time…” Mya thought about her dwindling funds and wondered if Lady T was playing her. “Make it take less time.”

  “I can’t promise anything.” She folded her arms and pursed her lips again. “If I learn where he’ll be, how do I let you know? Where do I send a message?”

  Oh, you’re good. She wasn’t about to tell the guildmaster where she was staying and risk a midnight visit from the murderous priest. “Hang a handkerchief in your bedroom window, and I’ll contact you.”

  “Fine.”

  “And the security service?”

  “I’ll start up a sham security company and start selling protection to the rich and powerful, but I have to go along with Hoseph to earn his trust.” The lady’s eyes narrowed. “When I tell you where to take Hoseph out, don’t miss. If he traces it back to me, we’re both dead.”

  “I won’t miss.” Mya inspected the hole in her dress and the thick bloodstain down her side. “And you owe me a dress.”

  Chapter X

  “Good morning, milord.” Baris entered his master’s bedchamber and drew back the drapes.

  “I don’t know how good it is yet, Baris.” Arbuckle blinked at the bright sunlight and climbed reluctantly out of bed. “I’ve only slept a few hours. I won’t know anything until I’ve had a pot of blackbrew.”

  “Of course, milord.” Baris held a silk robe for him, his face blank, though his voice might have held a hint of amusement.

  Arbuckle slipped into his robe and refrained from glaring, thinking only of blackbrew and the pile of work that awaited him. “Summon Tennison. I’ll dress before breakfast so we can get right to work.”

  “As you wish, milord.”

  By the time Arbuckle had finished his morning ablutions and dressed with his valet’s deft aid, his desire for blackbrew had sharpened into all-out yearning. Entering his sitting room, he was pleased to see the table already set. The fine porcelain dishes and crystal goblets gleamed in the early morning sunlight streaming through the window.

  “Breakfast is on the way, milord.”

  “Thank you, Baris.” Arbuckle settled into his seat as his valet retreated to the bedchamber to tidy up, and nodded good morning to the blademasters guarding the door. He sometimes wondered why he bothered being cordial to the bodyguards; they never gave the slightest indication that they noticed, and certainly never returned the greeting.

  “Good morning, Milord Prince.” Tennison entered, followed by a dour young woman toting a thick ledger. “Renquis here will serve as your scribe for the next few days while Master Verul organizes the archives.”

  “Welcome, Renquis.”

  “Milord Prince.” The woman’s whisper barely reached his ear. After an awkward curtsey, she hurried to the chair in the corner and sat down as rigid as a mannequin with her ledger on her lap, her pen hovering over the page, ready to take down Arbuckle’s every utterance.

  “Your schedule is heavy today, milord.” Tennison opened his appointment book and ran his finger down the page. “Four nobles have requested audiences this morning, then lunch with Duchess Ingstrom. This afternoon, Chief Constable Dreyfus wishes to see you about the lack of prison space for incarcerated malcontents.”

  Arbuckle cocked an eyebrow. “Did Dreyfus actually call them malcontents? That seems like a mild term, considering his usual attitude.”

  “I paraphrased his rather stronger and lengthier descriptive,” Tennison admitted.

  Arbuckle sighed. “Malcontents… Most of the incarcerated have good reason to be discontent. Do you know that most of the cases I reviewed last night were charges of failure to follow a lawful order to disperse and resisting arrest?”

  “I did not, milord.”

  “The jails overflow with those too slow to evade the constables, and it seems I’m paying for my foolishness. I hate to admit it, but Magistrate Graving was right about one thing: there are far too many cases for me to personally review.”

  The scratch of the scribe’s pen recording his admission unreasonably annoyed Arbuckle. It didn’t help that his blackbrew craving had evolved into a headache. His stomach growled, and he wondered if Renquis would put that in the log, too.

  “There may be a solution, milord.” Tennison tapped the edge of his book with a finger, a habit Arbuckle had learned signified deep thought. “There are several retired knights of the Order of Paladin in the city. They’re learned in law and loyal to a fault. I’m sure they’d appreciate the opportunity to once again serve the empire.”

  “Hmmm. Where might we find them?”

  Tennison looked surprised. “There are four currently living in the palace, milord.”

  “There are? Why didn’t I know of them?” Arbuckle’s surge of annoyance dissipated when the door opened and two footmen entered. The first bore a tray with covered plates, the second, a silver blackbrew service. The crown prince inhaled the heady aroma of fresh blackbrew, anticipating his first euphoric sip.

  “I didn’t realize you weren’t aware of the paladins’ presence,” said Tennison. “If you wish, I’ll set up appointments for them to attend you, though it may be difficult for Lord KerBalish and Lord MalEnthal. They’re not ambulatory.”

  Arbuckle’s mouth watered as a footman swiftly laid out his breakfast: plates of kippered herrings, poached eggs, potato pancakes, toast, and a bowl of steaming porridge. The other, the blackbrew pot in one hand, plucked the porcelain cup from the table to pour.

  “Not to worry,” Arbuckle said, “I’ll go to them. As long as their minds are keen and they understand—”

  A sharp crack took everyone unawares.

  The blademasters reacted instantly, hands on their swords as their eyes snapped to the source of the noise. The footman holding the blackbrew pot stared wide-eyed down at his hand. The cup he’d been holding had cracked and split so completely that only the handle remained in his grasp. The pieces lay upon the rug amidst a spatter of blackbrew.

  “Your pardon, milord!” The man looked horrified, his voice trembling. “I…don’t know what happened. I just… I just poured.”

  Arbuckle was more startled by the abject fear on the man’s face than the shattered cup. If he’d been serving my father, his head would probably already be on the floor beside the broken cup. It would take time for the staff to learn that their new lord didn’t consider a simple mishap to be a capital offence.

  “Blademasters, stand down.” The prince kept his tone casual. “There’s been no harm done that can’t be cleaned up. In fact, it looks as if there was hardly any blackbrew in the cup to spill. Just pour me another cup, good man. I’ll survive.”

  “Yes, milord!” The footman with the blackbrew pot looked reassured as he retrieved a new cup from the sideboard. He hurried back to the table and poured steaming blackbrew.

  The cup shattered, splattering the dark liquid across the table and setting off a chain reaction of detonating dinnerware. The saucer, the juice goblet, and two of the plates exploded into pieces, showering the crown prince in shards of porcelain
and bits of his breakfast.

  “What the hell?” Arbuckle jerked back, nearly toppling his chair.

  The blademasters lunged forward, swords drawn, one to stand protectively beside the prince, the other with his blade at the terrified footman’s throat.

  “Milord!” Tennison gaped at the destroyed place setting.

  “Good Gods of Light, what’s going on?” Arbuckle edged away from the table. This wasn’t a simple accident. Something was truly amiss.

  “I don’t know, milord.” The server looked as if he didn’t know which frightened him most, the blademaster’s sword at his throat or the blackbrew pot in his hand. “I just…poured.”

  Arbuckle stared at the mess on the table, porcelain and crystal shards everywhere, and the white linen cloth stained with blackbrew. Only a few dishes on the unsoiled corner of the cloth had escaped the destruction. That’s curious… “Blademasters, lower your weapons. Give me the pot. I want to try something.”

  Tennison stepped forward. “Milord, caution, if you please.”

  “If the pot’s not hurting the footman, Tennison, I doubt it will hurt me.” Retrieving the pot, Arbuckle dribbled some blackbrew onto one of the unscathed plates. The fine porcelain shattered. “Well!”

  A blademaster plucked the pot from Arbuckle’s hand and set it in a far corner, as if isolating a potential threat.

  Arbuckle wiped his hands self-consciously on his doublet. “Well, something’s not right. Fetch Master Duveau. I want him to look at this.”

  “At once, milord!” The second footman dashed out.

  Arbuckle gazed longingly at his ruined breakfast. “Damn it, I was looking forward to that blackbrew.”

  “Milord.” Tennison looked worried. “Might I suggest that you withdraw to your bed chamber until the archmage arrives? This is…well…disturbing, to say the least.”

  Arbuckle started to protest, but his blademasters nigh herded him into the inner room and closed the door. Baris looked horrified when Arbuckle told him of the exploding cups and plates, and had a fresh shirt and doublet for him in moments. Sighing in contrition, the prince picked up one of the case descriptions he’d been working on the previous evening, reading it as he paced the floor. His mind, however, was not on his work, but on his strange exploding breakfast. What could cause tableware to shatter? Some kind of magic, or curse?

  Arbuckle lay the book aside when he heard voices in the outer room. Opening the door, he discovered Captain Ithross and several imperial guards entering from the corridor.

  “Milord Prince, are you all right?” The captain swept his gaze around the room, focusing briefly on the soiled tablecloth and shattered porcelain before fixing on the crown prince. “A footmen said that all Nine Hells had broken loose in here.”

  “Not quite all nine, but we have had a bit of a surprise. It’s something to do with the blackbrew. I’ve sent for Archmage Duveau to try to figure out what happened.”

  “Milord, we’ve got to get you away from here.”

  “I seem to be safe enough, Captain, and I want to know what Duveau discovers.” Arbuckle would be damned if he’d get shunted away now.

  Ithross shook his head. “I really must insist—”

  The door opened again, and Archmage Duveau entered. “Milord, I really must—” The wizard stopped short at the sight of the wreck of Arbuckle’s breakfast table. “Ah, so that’s it.”

  “What’s it, Master Duveau?”

  “Someone has tried to poison you, milord.” Duveau might have been saying that it was sunny outside for all the concern in his voice.

  “Poison?” Arbuckle swallowed hard. Someone just tried to kill me.

  “How do you know that?” Ithross demanded.

  Duveau ignored the captain and bent over the table to examine the shattered cups and plates, then noticed the blademaster standing guard over the pot in the corner. “The blackbrew?”

  “How do you know?” Ithross repeated.

  “I know because the imperial family’s tableware is enchanted to break if it is ever touched by poison.” Duveau stepped past the blademaster to pick up blackbrew pot. Moving back to the table, he lifted a spoon, dipped it into the pot, and drew it out. The end of the spoon had melted away. “Yes, without a doubt, the blackbrew is poisoned.”

  While Arbuckle’s mind spun, Ithross spoke in a whisper to one of his guards. The woman saluted and dashed from the room.

  “Enchanted tableware? Why didn’t I know about this?” Arbuckle was beginning to wonder just how much there was that he didn’t know about his own home.

  “Very few do know of it, milord.” Duveau shrugged and put the melted spoon onto the table. “The emperor, of course, myself, and Mistress Ellis, our resident runemage, who is tasked with maintaining the magic on the service and enchanting new pieces.” The archmage cast a thunderous glare around the room. “And now, everyone here knows of it. And let me inform you all that it is imperative that it remain absolutely secret. If I learn that one word of what I’ve said about this precaution has left this room, the loose tongue will be found out and removed!”

  The footmen and several imperial guards paled under the archmage’s wrath.

  The threat tweaked Arbuckle’s temper. “You needn’t be so harsh about—”

  “With all due respect, Milord Prince, I do! If this becomes common knowledge, it is useless as a protection and puts your life at risk. Only by remaining a secret did this enchantment save your life and offer a chance to catch the culprit before he knows his attempt has failed.”

  “Very well.” Arbuckle swept the room with his eyes. “Everyone here is sworn to secrecy with regard to this enchantment under penalty of treason. Is that understood?”

  Everyone bowed and muttered, “Yes, milord.”

  Arbuckle turned to Ithross. “Captain, can we catch this assassin?”

  “Already working on it, milord. The palace is being locked down as we speak. No one can leave or enter until I say so. But I have to wonder,” he pointed to the destroyed tableware, “how could such a thing be done?”

  “It’s no trivial matter.” Duveau stood a little taller. “The spell is subtle, the runes hidden beneath the outer layer of glaze. It’s quite beyond the skill of all but a few. I have a fascination with rune magic, but this, I must admit, is beyond even my expertise. It requires a—”

  Ithross interrupted the mage by clearing his throat. “I meant, how could someone poison the prince’s blackbrew.”

  Duveau scowled at the captain’s interruption, and Ithross scowled right back.

  “Gentlemen!” Arbuckle tried to keep the quaver from his voice. “Someone has tried to kill me. I want to know who and why.”

  “We’ll question the kitchen staff and anyone who had access to this pot of blackbrew.” Ithross pointed at the trembling footman. “Starting with you.”

  “I just poured!” the servant cried.

  Arbuckle threw up his hands. “That must be a very short list of people, Captain. Aside from the cook and the footman carrying the tray, who else could have touched that pot?”

  The captain and the footman both blinked, stared at the prince for a moment, then looked at each other.

  “Milord, there are many servants who might have had access.” Ithross glanced back to the footman. “Perhaps thirty or…”

  “More like a hundred, sir.” The footman looked from face to face. “The kitchens are a right madhouse this time of morning. There’s fresh produce and meat bein’ delivered, twenty cooks all workin’ at the same time, with twice as many scullery maids and potboys scurryin’ about. Not to mention the footmen, lady’s maids, chambermaids, valets, and who knows who else comin’ and goin’.”

  “Good Gods of Light.” Arbuckle took an involuntary step back. So many people just to serve him and the few guests currently in the palace? How such an endeavor could go without his notice, he couldn’t fathom. Who else? Gardeners, drivers, maids, grooms… “How many servants do work in the palace, Tennison?”

 
; “I…don’t know the exact number, milord.” The secretary looked discomforted. “Some hundreds. More, if you count those who come and go with deliveries.”

  Arbuckle’s mind reeled. Hundreds…and one, at least, wants me dead.

  “Archmage Duveau, you can discern truth with your magic, can you not?” Arbuckle asked.

  “Of course, milord.”

  Who wants me dead? There was only one way to find out. “Question everyone.” Arbuckle knew he was being paranoid, but he couldn’t live in fear in his own home. “While the palace is locked down, I want every single person interviewed.”

  “Impossible!” Duveau’s face contorted into a mask of incredulity. “That would take days, milord!”

  “Milord, we can’t keep the palace locked down for days, but we can start with those who arrived this morning on errands or deliveries, letting them leave once they’re proved innocent, then focus on the palace staff working in or around the kitchens.” Ithross glanced from Arbuckle to the archmage. “That, perhaps, could take a day.”

  “I don’t care how long it takes.” Arbuckle glared. “You will find this assassin! Use whatever resources you must, and use your judgment, but I want everyone in the palace questioned eventually, not only to see if they had anything to do with this assassination attempt, but also to confirm their loyalty to me. Do you understand, Ithross? Duveau? You are to personally interview each and every one.”

  “But Milord Prince, the labor involved in interviewing so many is inordinate. I’m already exhausted from adjusting the palace wards and sending out missives to the provincial dukes. I simply can’t—"

  “You can and you will. My life is at stake, and I need you to do your job!” Immediately Arbuckle regretted the harsh words. He had already ruffled feathers by speaking his mind too quickly. Think it through, Arbuckle. Always think it through. “You’ll have help. Master Kiefer is skilled at this spell, too, isn’t he? Have him assist you.”

  Duveau’s face reddened, but he nodded respectfully. “Very well, milord.”

  The prince turned to Captain Ithross. “Do you have any problem with my commands, Captain Ithross?”