“I do not wish to offend you, but I must refuse your offer.”
“You must?” She grinned openly at his manner. “Well, I don’t think I’ve ever been turned down in a nicer way. Suit yourself, and look me up if you find yourself in need of a friend in Twailin. It’s a big place, you know. Just find the Golden Cockerel and ask for Mya. I live there.”
“The golden cockerel? What is that?”
“It’s a pub, but the innkeeper rents rooms upstairs.” She kicked her mount into a prancing trot and shouted over her shoulder. “Anyway, just ask for Mya!” She waved and kicked her mount again, surprised again when the boy hesitantly raised his hand in a poor attempt at a wave. He really was strange! She rode at a conservative pace until she was out of sight then dug her heels in hard. If she got to the Grandfather soon enough, they could lay a trap on the road for the boy, but if he reached the city, finding him would be virtually impossible.
Lad let his hand drop to his side, continuing his loose-limbed gait and wondering why he had refused the girl’s offer. If he had joined her, he may well have shortened his traveling time by half a day. But there were some things about the girl that did not fit. With a short sword and dagger at her belt, and another dagger in her boot, she wore more weapons than seemed needful of a messenger, and although she rode well enough, her clothes looked worn more from walking than from sitting a horse. That she had been riding hard all night was the truth, at least, for he could see the mount’s lather and smell the girl’s sweat as well. He also wondered why she wore such a poorly fitting tunic. He’d worn less for most of his life, but if she found the garment so constricting that she felt the need to loosen the lacings until it was almost falling off, why not just go without?
Well, the meeting had not been a complete waste; he now knew exactly how far he had to travel before reaching his destiny. Lad reached into his bag and took out the slab of jerky. He bit off a mouthful and chewed the tough, smoked meat into submission before swallowing. Another bite, followed by two bites of hard tack, and his belly was less empty. After the impromptu meal, he quickened his pace slightly, easing into a mile-eating jog. His food would last the trip easily, and he would reach the city of Twailin well before the following morning.
Lad had no illusions that his destiny would be easy to find in a city of twenty thousand people, but he knew that he could earn his way without creating trouble now. He would find somewhere he could work for food and a place to sleep and search the city from there. Perhaps he would also find this girl Mya and find out what she knew of the city.
Chapter VIII
“Clear the road!” Mya yelled at the top of her lungs, lashing her exhausted mount with the reins and kicking him with her weary legs. “Out of my way!” She ignored the yelps and shouts of protest from the late evening throngs walking the narrow streets near the Grandfather’s estate. She’d run them all down if she had to!
She clattered around a corner and her horse skittered on the cobbles, losing its footing. She jerked the reins and kicked hard, trying to straighten the gelding out, but the shod hooves just threw sparks from the smooth stones, finding no purchase. With a squeal of terror the horse went down, and she barely got her foot out of the stirrup in time to avoid being crushed. She flung out a hand and tried to roll, but the unyielding street slapped her hard; her left wrist bent at a bad angle and pain lanced up her arm. Then her head struck a cobble, dimming her vision for a moment.
Shouts from the crowd lashed at her wavering consciousness, the groping hands of strangers jerking her to wakefulness.
“Get away from me!” she shouted, lashing out with her uninjured hand. Her fist hit something yielding, and she heard more shouts.
“She’s crazy!”
“Gotta be drunk!”
“Look at that poor horse! Why it’s rode out!”
“Get away, damn you all!” Mya lurched unsteadily to her feet, cradling her injured arm. One glance told her that something was broken, but it didn’t matter. She stumbled to her mount, shoving the crowd aside. The gelding heaved ragged breaths, convulsing in shudders that told her it was dying. She’d ridden it to death, but that didn’t matter either. She was but a few blocks from the Grandfather’s estate. She only needed it for a few more minutes.
“Get up!” she shouted, grabbing the reins and lashing at the curdled froth of the beast’s withers. “UP, damn you!” The spent horse tried to comply, its legs churning, the broad neck bowing as it tried to right itself, but it couldn’t.
“Leave be, Girl!” a man’s voice shouted from behind her. A broad hand landed on her shoulder, and she swept her sword out and around in a slow broad arc. He jumped back quickly enough to save himself from being gutted, but just barely.
“Back off!” she yelled, glaring the crowd into submission. “This is no affair of yours! I’m a messenger for The Guild!” The tone she used implied exactly which guild she meant, and that, if nothing else, brought fear into the eyes of the ugly throng.
She turned back to her horse, but its eyes had already glazed over, and its breaths were the shuddering convulsions of its last death throes. Cursing, she cut loose her saddlebags and started to turn away. The horse’s dying eyes drew hers as if by some magical impulse, and a sliver of pity surfaced in her mind. She looked at the blade in her hand, and with one stroke ended the animal’s suffering. The crowd let out a collective gasp at the death stroke, but she just glared at them, turned, and ran up the street toward the looming spire of the Grandfather’s estate.
“Hold up there!” a voice called though the dimness of the foggy evening darkness. The glow of a torch lit only poorly the man who had spoken, but Targus knew there were more; he could hear the hooves of at least four more horses, and the creaking of a wagon or cart through the fog that was playing tricks with the sounds. He pulled back on his mount’s rein, hissing a warning to Jax to do the same.
“Ware, travelers!” the half-elfin hunter called out, limbering up his short hornbow from its scabbard as a precaution. “We’re searching for a friend of ours, long overdue in the city. He was to have come this way and may have met trouble.”
“Well, if one of these be your friend,” the speaker said wearily, moving his short column of horsemen into clearer view, “methinks he found trouble.” Two men were leading a two-wheeled cart by the reins, the bed piled high with canvas-wrapped bodies.
“Good Gods, Man! What in the names of the Nine Hells happened here?” Targas really didn’t expect a coherent account, but he thought this response would be more believable than a more calculated one.
“I’m Constable Burk, from Thistledown and I’ll have your name before I answer any of your questions, Sir,” the man said as three more horsemen pulled up to flank him closely.
“My name is Targus, if that means anything to you, and if that’s the cart I think I recognize, there are two among those piled upon it that I may know. One was a man who was to have delivered something to my guildmaster; the other would be his nephew, a boy of sixteen summers.” Truth mixed with falsehood was always more believable than falsehood alone, Targus knew. He could not have described Corillian, so withheld any attempt to depict him. He also knew that the weapon would not be found among the dead, so any description of the boy that he might think up would mean nothing.
“Come into the light, then, Mister Targus. Have a look, and tell me if there are any here you know,” the man said, raising his torch high. “We had a disturbance there that I’m sure you heard about if you stopped for the night at the Inn of the Copper Pot. We traveled this way to find the cause of that disturbance, but only found seven people slain and lying in the road, and an old man slumped in his cart with an arrow wound through his neck. Looks to me like bandits attacked him, but we couldn’t tell the outlaws from their victims. If your friends are among them, I’d appreciate any explanation you could provide.”
Targus kicked his mount forward, placing his bow back in the scabbard. “I would wager that the old man you describe is the
one we seek. His name was Corillian, and he was an artisan of no small skill.” As he approached, the smell of the seven aging corpses hit Targus like a slap in the face, even thought the bodies were wrapped in canvas. He raised his hand to his face to ward off the stench. “That’s his cart surely enough, but I’d rather not try to identify them at this point, if you don’t mind.” He noted the two additional horsemen riding behind the wagon, and the three horses they trailed.
“Well, if it’s any consolation, we found no half-grown boy among the dead. Mayhaps your friend decided not to bring his nephew along on this trip.” Burk moved his horse back to shed light on the laden wagon. “And the old man gave a good accounting of himself if he was alone, though how he felled seven brigands before falling himself is a mystery to me.”
“Master Corillian was more than an artisan, good Constable.” Targas kept his mount at such a distance that he did not have to endure so much of the stench. He couldn’t blame the men for trailing the team along by their traces instead of driving them properly. “He knew more than a little magic, and could use it well when it came to protecting himself.”
“Magic didn’t kill these men. The old man and two of the others died from arrows, one from a dagger in his heart and four from, well, something I can’t quite explain.” The man looked uncomfortable, as if he’d found something that scared him a lot more than a simple bandit attack.
“Such was his skill, to send arrows flying where he wanted,” Targus lied. ”But you say you found no boy among the dead? That is good news among the ruin, at least.” He peered into the cart, stifling the smell with a kerchief. “If the bandits didn’t take everything...”
“Didn’t look like they took anything, to my eye,” the constable said, motioning the entire entourage forward again. “Good weapons lying around, money still in the old man’s belt pouch... Some strange stuff in that cart, mind you. Scrolls and pots of dust that don’t smell like anything I know of, but if you say he was a magician, that explains a lot. Don’t know how he managed to kill all the bandits and then end up dead himself, though.”
“A tale we would all like to hear, but never will.” Targus kicked his horse away from the stinking cart, motioning Jax to follow. “If you would, good Constable, please keep the cart and its contents secure in Thistledown. The Guild will send a representative to see what may be salvaged.”
“What guild do you mean? And why shouldn’t we search through the magician’s things? We found it deserted, and by law anything in it belongs to Thistledown.”
“By law you may be correct, Sir. Take what weapons and money you found as your compensation; we have no need of those. But unless you have a competent wizard in residence in Thistledown, I would suggest that you not go poking into things best left untouched by those without mage-skill.” He kicked his mount into a canter and shouted back. “And what guild would you think has dealings with wizards?”
Targus and Jax rode back the way they had come, ignoring the muttered curses of the motley group behind. They had at least confirmed that Corillian was dead and that the weapon was roaming loose somewhere. They settled into an energy-conserving pace; Twailin was three days away, and Targus felt that he would need that long to think up an adequate explanation for his failure to the Grandfather of Assassins.
“Hold there, Lassie!” a burly guard snapped, stepping up to the wrought iron gate that was the entrance to the guildmaster’s estate. The gate was closed and barred, as it always was after dark, which made the guard’s warning a little ridiculous in Mya’s mind.
“You expected me to crash right through, maybe?” she said with a scoff, cradling her throbbing arm, her breath coming in long ragged gasps. The days without sleep or rest were taking their toll; she felt giddy with exhaustion and the lingering effects of Targus’ potion. “I’m on the Grandfather’s business, Guard, and as you can see,” she held up her deformed wrist, “it’s left me a little worse for wear. I need to speak with him immediately! My name is Mya; I work with Master Hunter, Targus.”
“Aye, we’ve been told to expect someone from Targus, so that’ll get you through the gate.” They worked the squeaky bolt and opened the heavy portal just enough for her to slip through. She started for the main house, but the guard snapped, “Not so fast there! I told you that’d get you through the gate. You’ll not go traipsing around the estate without an escort.” He snapped his fingers at one of the others standing the gate post. “Hollas, you go with her. And from the looks of that arm, you might have one of the boys call for a healer as well.”
“Aye, Sir!” Hollas said, falling in beside Mya. “Let’s go, Girlie, but at my pace, not yours.”
“Fine.” Mya was just about through arguing. All she needed to do was stay on her feet long enough to tell the Grandfather what she’d found, then she could rest. “Lead on!”
The two entered the main house and were immediately met by two more guards. A short explanation that the Grandfather need be summoned sent one of them in search of the guildmaster’s valet. The man cared for more than the Grandfather’s clothes, Mya knew, and was a veteran of many contracts. Nobody saw the Grandfather without going through his valet. Mya took a moment to look around, having never been allowed to enter the estate proper. The ceiling of the entrance hall arched two floors high, the center of that dome dominated by a single, magnificent, wrought-iron chandelier. The lamps held in its twisting embrace were turned down, and she could see how the whole apparatus could be lowered by a huge chain set in a pulley system. The entry hall was dominated by an immense, white marble stair that swept gracefully upward to bifurcate at its peak, extending into the two wings of the second floor.
Her mind wandered as she waited, her breath returning quickly from her short run. Her arm throbbed at a slower rate as her heart calmed. One of the guards offered her a drink from his water skin and she took it, the sweet clean liquid washing away the dust cloying her throat. By the time the portly man that she knew was the Grandfather’s valet descended the broad stair from the upper floor, the combination of pain and exhaustion had her nodding sleepily on her feet.
“What’s this about then?” the man asked, eying her up and down as the guard who’d delivered him trotted off to find a healer.
“My name is Mya,” she said, trying for calm respect through the clenched teeth that kept her from crying out in pain at every throb of her badly swollen arm. “I work for Master Hunter, Targus. I have information that the Grandfather needs to know right away. I must see him.”
“And how did you hurt your arm?”
Mya stared for a half second, wondering if she’d heard correctly. “What the hell difference does that make?”
“The difference between seeing the Grandfather, and spending the next few days decorating the wall of a dungeon.” His tone was mild, but his eyes were as sharp as twin daggers. “Answer me.”
“Fine.” Mya bit her lip against her temper. “I broke my arm when the horse that I’d just ridden to death to get here as quickly as possible fell on me. I was rounding the corner of Serpent Way and Ironmonger Street, riding too fast for cobblestones. I ran the rest of the way on foot.” She glared at him, matching stares. She had little doubt that this man could kill her before she could clear her sword from its scabbard, but felt confident that he would find himself tacked to a wall without his skin if the Grandfather found out he’d been deprived of her message. “Now, do I get to see him?”
“In the morning.” He started to turn away, but her hand shot out, grabbing his sleeve at the shoulder.
“Wait just a minute!” The rasp of steel loosened her grip even before the valet turned his evil stare upon her. The two guards had their swords out, one pointed directly at her throat from the side, and the other behind her, ready, she felt sure, to split her skull. She let her hand drift away from the valet’s arm, open and unthreatening.
“Just let me explain.” She took a deep breath and glanced at the guard to her right, but he did not lower his blade. “I’ve got
a message regarding something of great value to the Grandfather. If you won’t let me see him, just tell him that I’ve found his weapon. He will see me. If he doesn’t learn of it before morning, neither of our lives will be worth spit!”
The valet turned back to her, waving the guards away and squaring his round shoulders. “I decide what is important to the Grandfather, little girl.” He took a half step closer. “He is entertaining this evening, and will probably keep his guest until morning.” Another half step and his lips drew back in a feral sneer. “I was told not to allow him to be disturbed.” One more half step brought his nose only inches from her own, his breath hot in her face with every word. “In comes a slip of a girl telling me she’s got something more important than my direct order from the Grandfather not to allow him to be disturbed!” The sneer dissolved into a sweet, placating smile that turned her stomach with its insincerity. “After briefly considering the consequences of disobeying a direct order from the Grandfather of Assassins, I have decided that you will see him in... the... morning!”
She stood there fuming as the fool turned and strode back up the sweeping stairs, his smug confidence more painful than her throbbing arm.
“Swaggering idiot!” she spat as she eased herself down to sit on the lowest step of the grand marble staircase, cradling her arm in her lap.
“You can’t stay here, Missie,” one of the guards said, his tone incredulous.
“Have me removed, then!” She winced as she leaned back, crossing her tired legs. “They can bury you right next to that pompous twerp who’s keeping me from delivering my message to the Grandfather. The message that he’s specifically been waiting for.”
The guards looked at one another, and the one who’d escorted her across the courtyard said, “She’s your problem, Jeffer. I gotta get back to my post.”
As the gate guard left, a tired-looking man in a long crimson robe entered the foyer from a side passage, escorted by the guard who had summoned the valet. He walked up to the pair, eying the girl lying back with her arm cradled in her lap and the guard standing over her; the latter obviously trying to decide what to do with her.
Weapon of Flesh Page 7
