Such a simplistic cult…
The blessing granted to Koss by the Demia was the reason for Hoseph’s visit this night. Sleep being akin to death, Demia had entered and soothed Koss’ troubled dreams. It was a skill taught to her most devoted of worshipers as a final solace to the dying. Tonight, he would use that skill for a different purpose.
Hoseph looked around to get his bearings. Earlier in the evening he had surreptitiously visited city archives and reviewed copies of the original architectural designs for the temple. Now he pictured those drawings in his mind and matched them to what he saw.
Four large doors exited the north end of the main hall of worship, leading to the wings for the Orders of the Body, Spirit, Mind, and Sword. It was the last that interested Hoseph. Somewhere behind this door slept High Priest Saepse, the master of the blademasters of Koss Godslayer in Tsing.
Hoseph tried the door’s latch, but it was locked. He was no assassin, and certainly no burglar, but stealth and intrusion were redundant when one could walk the realm of shadows. He peered through the large keyhole into the corridor beyond. Touching his silver skull, he vanished and reappeared on the other side of the door. Through two more doors like a breeze through a shutter, and still no sign of guards. Unnecessary—none would dare confront blademasters.
A nagging ache pulsed behind his eyes, and Hoseph swayed, lightheaded. Fatigue…I’m working too hard. Recalling the diagrams once again, he assessed his position. Left at the end of the corridor, and Saepse’s quarters should be on the right.
Finally coalescing before the thick oaken door embossed with the coat of arms of the Order of the Sword, Hoseph stumbled and steadied himself against the wall. His head throbbed and he felt dizzy. What’s wrong with me?
Hoseph looked at the silver skull in his hand. Could Demia’s divine method of travel be taking a toll? He’d never experienced any side effects before, but then, he’d never used it so much before. Prior to the emperor’s death, he’d rarely travelled more than once or twice a day. Lately, he’d been flicking through the Sphere of Shadow constantly.
Nothing to be done about it. Just a few more tonight, then I can rest.
Hoseph knelt to peer through the keyhole, but his eye met only darkness. Cupping his hands to block the light from the nearby wall sconce, he closed his eyes to let them to adjust. Opening one to peer through the aperture, he divined by the starlight a small, sparse room with a wide bed, a bedside table with an unlit lamp, and the lump of a sleeping form.
Perfect. Ignoring his headache, Hoseph touched his talisman and flicked through the shadows into the room.
Slow, steady breathing greeted him. The high priest slept deeply beneath a white coverlet embroidered in silver thread with the blazing Sword of Light.
Two steps took Hoseph close enough to peer down at the sleeping priest’s face. Silently invoking Demia’s favor, he closed his eyes and searched his senses. Dream… Dream, and show me your soul… Scenes flashed into his mind, dreams of training, honor, regimen, duty. Hoseph delicately inserted his own memories of the palace dungeon: first the dead blademasters, their grievous wounds and blank, staring eyes; then their dead charge, Tynean Tsing, with his expression of stark terror, his own dagger thrust into his throat. Finally, he wove a careful suggestion.
You have failed! You have broken your oath to the emperor and to Koss Godslayer. You have failed…and failure is the ultimate sin. Royal blood wets your hands. You have failed…and there is only one atonement for failure…
Chapter XI
“Thank you, Lord MalEnthal. Your aid in this is invaluable.”
“It’s the least I could do, Milord Prince.” The aged paladin sat propped up in bed. He nodded toward his nurse, a surly looking man in a tabard emblazoned with the crossed scrolls of Oris the Overseer, god of knowledge and learning. “Jamis here provides me with reading material, but there’s no real work for a paladin with no legs, is there?” The man smiled ruefully, his large, scarred hands patting the flat blanket below his torso.
“You can thank Tennison here for suggesting that I solicit your assistance.” Don’t hesitate to call on me if a particular case doesn’t fit in to the parameters we’ve established.”
“Yes, milord. No incarceration for non-violent protests, and short prison sentences without corporal punishment for damage to property. Anything involving theft or injury comes to you for review.” The paladin nodded in approval. “I must say, I’m happy to see an end to the brutality. It’s good to have someone with a heart in command again.”
“Again? You knew my grandfather?”
“He knighted me.” The grizzled old face split into a grin, but the joy faded. “No disrespect to your father, of course.”
“My father deserved your disrespect, Lord MalEnthal. The empire’s a better place without him.”
“Yes, milord.” The knight frowned deeply.
Arbuckle wondered what acts of brutality MalEnthal had committed under the orders of Tynean Tsing II, then realized he’d rather not know. That chapter in the empire’s history was closed. It would take years to right the wrongs, but holding a grudge against those forced by their oaths of fealty into implementing the will of a brutal tyrant would do no good.
Arbuckle left the chamber with his entourage once again at his heels and new hope in his heart. “That should take some of the weight off my shoulders. Three extra sets of eyes to review court cases will make the work go much faster.” The fourth paladin in residence had been unfit to serve, the man’s mind addled with advanced years. “What next, Tennison?”
The secretary consulted his ledger. “The vote, milord. All the senior nobles of the city await you in the Great Hall. Afterward will be a discussion of the coronation plans.”
“Must all the provincial dukes be present for the coronation?” Arbuckle chafed at the delay.
“Yes, milord.” Tennison looked apologetic. “They must personally swear fealty once you’re crowned emperor. The law’s quite clear.”
“I suppose we mustn’t flout the law. Perhaps today’s vote can abolish one of my father’s unjust ones.” Until he took the throne, trying to cajole two-thirds of his ranking nobles into supporting his changes was his only recourse.
They descended the sweeping stairway to the ground floor and turned down the long Hall of Arms. The gleaming coats of arms of each noble house hung for all to see, and beneath each stood an imperial guard, as immobile as a statue.
“I don’t suppose there’s any way we can hasten the coronation.”
“Short of magic, none that I know of, milord.”
“Magic…” Arbuckle cocked his head in thought. “Do you think the Imperial Retinue of Wizards would be willing to transport the dukes to the city? I know not everyone has access to a capable wizard, but I’m sure Duveau could think of something.”
“I’m afraid not, milord. None of the dukes would agree to attend without their families, servants, and a mountain of baggage. We can only urge them politely to make haste.”
Best just buckle down and play by the rules, Arbuckle. He’d spent his whole life playing by someone else’s rules. A few more weeks wouldn’t kill him. Unless the next assassination attempt does. His stomach soured at the thought.
They stopped before the Great Hall’s towering double doors, and Arbuckle drew a deep breath to quell his nervousness. Every noble on his list of potential masterminds behind the assassination attempt would be in this room.
As the doors opened, a herald cracked his staff twice upon the marble floor. “Crown Prince Arbuckle of Tsing, Heir to the Throne!”
With a slow, dignified step, Arbuckle entered the hall, mounted the low dais, and took his seat. Nearly a hundred senior nobles arced around the front of the dais. Arbuckle noted that many had brought their daughters with them, the young ladies unduly primped for a business meeting. As the unmarried heir to the empire, beautiful ladies swarmed to him like bees to honey, but Arbuckle had more important things on his mind than courting potential
empresses.
Tennison opened his ledger. “Honored nobles of Tsing, you attend this assembly to cast your vote for or against an amendment to the law regarding punishment of commoners proposed by Crown Prince Arbuckle. In brief, this amendment stipulates that corporal punishment of a servant or commoner may only be carried out after the accused is found guilty of committing a crime, and only under the aegis of the Tsing City Constabulary. A two-thirds vote is required for—”
The chamber doors burst open, and two columns of blademasters strode into the Great Hall. They were led by High Priest Saepse, wearing long black robes embroidered with a silver sword and a grim expression. Parting the crowd, they advanced and stopped before the dais.
The hair rose on Arbuckle’s neck. Why were they here? His eyes flicked around the roomful of nobles and their scions. Some threat to my safety? An assassination plot?
Captain Ithross hurried up, his face a mask of worry. “Milord Prince, I’m sorry for the interruption. They—”
Arbuckle raised his hand, trying to appear calm. “Don’t apologize, Captain. I’m sure there’s a good reason for this.” Only then did Arbuckle realize that every off-duty blademaster bound to imperial service accompanied the high priest. “High Priest Saepse, what’s going on here?”
“I will explain, Milord Prince.” The priest’s fingers flicked in the silent language of the blademasters.
Immediately, the bodyguards at Arbuckle’s side strode from the dais to join their ranks of brethren, standing with eyes forward, expressionless faces, and hands on the hilts of their swords. The prince felt instantly and conspicuously vulnerable, as if he’d just walked naked into a room full of people bearing daggers and ill will.
“Milord!” Tennison’s voice came in an urgent hiss. “You are without protection!”
“Guards!” Ithross waved the imperial guards positioned around the room to the dais, and they form a thin line around their lord.
“My Lord Prince.” High Priest Saepse dropped to one knee and bowed his head. The rest of the blademasters clutched their fists to their chests and bowed in the sacred gesture they performed during their oath-taking ceremony, when they pledged their lives—and deaths—to their master.
Arbuckle’s brow furrowed as he stood, a surge of fear clenching his gut. “High Priest Saepse, what’s this about?”
Saepse looked up. “It is about failure, milord. The failure of my order, my faith, and my brethren.”
Murmurs swept through the crowd of wide-eyed nobles and attendants. Ithross looked nervous, his knuckles white on the hilt of his sword.
“I don’t understand.”
“Please accept my deepest apologies, milord. The Order of The Sword failed the House of Tsing when our charge, Tynean Tsing II, was murdered.” He raised a hand and flicked his fingers. As one, the blademasters drew their swords and formed a circle around their priest.
The nobles backed away from the bared weapons, murmurs of disbelief and concern rising like a whispering tide.
“Swords!” yelled Ithross, drawing his blade. The imperial guards mirrored his action, a fragile barrier between Arbuckle and the most deadly swordsmen in the empire.
At another gesture from the high priest, each blademaster lifted his sword in salute, then lowered the tip, touching the back of the man before him to form an unbroken chain of steel and flesh. Saepse drew a long dagger from his robe, gazed skyward, and placed the tip against the hollow of his throat.
“Failure is the ultimate sin,” the priest said. “There can be only one atonement!”
Arbuckle couldn’t believe his eyes. “No!”
High Priest Saepse sheathed the dagger in his flesh. In the same instant, the blademasters thrust in perfect unison, each sword piercing the heart of the next man in the circle. They all fell as one.
After an instant of shocked silence, a woman’s scream pierced the air. The crowd of nobles scrambled back.
Arbuckle stared in slack-jawed horror at the bodies encircling the high priest, their life blood spreading slowly across the cool marble floor. Fear prickled every nerve in the prince’s body. His blademasters—loyal, inviolate, invulnerable—were gone. He couldn’t think of what to do, what to say.
Captain Ithross solved that problem for him.
“Clear the chamber! Imperial Guard, to me! Protect your prince! Herald, call the guards from the hallway to assist!” Ithross turned to Arbuckle, lowering his voice. “Milord Prince, this is not safe! We must take you to someplace secure until protection can be arranged. Please, come with me.” He gestured to a side door.
“Yes, I…” Arbuckle stepped off the dais and nearly fell, his knees trembled so badly. He tried to subdue his pounding heart. The heir to the empire needed to act calm, even if he didn’t feel it.
Someone grabbed the prince’s arm, and he jumped. Tennison pushed gently, nodding to the impatient captain. “Go with them, please, milord. I’ll take care of everything.”
“Yes.” Arbuckle nodded numbly. “Thank you, Tennison. Captain, lead on.”
Surrounded by a cordon of naked steel, he fled the hall. Murmurs and shouts broke out behind him, answered by Tennison’s steady voice, but Arbuckle couldn’t catch a single word over the roaring in his ears. I’m vulnerable! There’s nothing between me and an assassin’s blade now.
“Hear the news! Hear the news! Blademasters of Koss Godslayer all dead!”
It took a moment for the town crier’s words to register through Mya’s fatigue. She had been studying the cult of Demia all morning in hopes of learning more about Hoseph, and her mind was swimming with religious details she wished she’d never learned. Now she stopped short. Blademasters all dead? Are they releasing details of Tynean Tsing’s death now, a week later? That seemed strange. Why advertise that the vaunted blademasters were fallible? Their myth was a greater deterrent than the now-tarnished truth.
“All blademasters dead as high priest orders suicide!”
Suicide? What? Mya moved into the Midtown crowd surrounding the crier, enduring the push and shove of sweaty bodies as she listened to the dramatic recitation of how the entire Order of the Sword had taken their own lives right in front of the crown prince.
“That’s impossible!” cried someone when the man had finished his message.
“It’s true!” the crier insisted. “It happened in the Great Hall! Dozens of nobles witnessed it!”
Ignoring the cries of disbelief and catcalls about lying nobles, Mya forced her way free of the crowd. She doubted a town crier would shout out unsubstantiated rumors, but this sounded too incredible to believe. She sought out a posterboard—businesses all around town paid a modest fee to have the boards erected outside their doors in hopes of attracting customers—and shoved through the crowd of people to read the newly posted notice. The news was true.
It’s got to be Hoseph…
The priest had made his move, removing the prince’s sworn protectors to better access the target. It was the logical first step in planning an assassination.
Mya wracked her brain, assessing what she had learned about the cult of Demia. How a priest could be transformed into a power-hungry assassin remained an mystery. After all, the Keeper of the Slain was a God of Light. The faith regarded death as a gentle, natural experience, not a violent act. Demia’s followers repudiated wealth and comfort, and sought no domination over others.
After she’d read all she could find in the city library, Mya had investigated Demia’s temple. As spare in architecture as the religion’s adherents were in their habits, it radiated a sense of peace. The priests and acolytes were soft-spoken and eager to provide testimony to Demia’s solace for those on the cusp of death. The true intent of the divine laying on of glowing hands was to ease a tortured soul on its way. Hoseph had twisted the act of mercy into murder. Had he perverted another of Demia’s blessings to drive the blademasters to suicide? Regardless of how he had done it, one thing was certain; without the blademasters’ protection, the crown prince was a m
uch easier target.
She walked away from the posterboard. It’s not my fight. I’ve got enough on my hands.
All the way back to the inn, Mya took the pulse of the city. Word of the blademasters’ demise spread quickly, and many considered it an ill omen.
“Why would they abandon the prince?” cried an old woman as she twisted her hands in misery. “He’s done nothin’ but good.”
“Good for us means bad for the nobles. Bet they’re behind this!” groused another.
Even the constables on the bridge to the Dreggars Quarter were subdued. For once, the familiar sergeant just waved her on without a question or comment to his corporal.
Mya barely paid attention as she pondered what this news meant to her. What would happen to the Assassins Guild if they succeeded in killing the crown prince? Would there be a struggle for succession? What would the common people do? Would there be rebellion, civil war, martial law? And what about the guild? Gaining control would be more difficult amid such strife.
“Got a coin, lady?”
Mya looked down at the grimy urchin standing with an outstretched hand. She hadn’t noticed Digger sidle up beside her. Focus, Mya! Lad’s not watching over you anymore. Digger’s approach meant the urchins were assembled and hungry.
She gestured as if the boy’s presence offended her. “No. Now scat!”
Digger scampered away, and Mya continued down the street, making a stop at a bakery, and another to buy several papayas from a fruit vendor. Striding on, she glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then ducked into the abandoned stable. Her urchins met her with wide eyes and hungry smiles.
Weapon of Fear (Weapon of Flesh Trilogy II Book 1) Page 19
