Weapon of Flesh

by Chris A. Jackson

  “I do not understand.” Lad’s voice was that same calm tone. She wondered if anything ever changed the tone of his voice. Sometimes it was infuriating, but most of the time she found his voice comforting. “They threaten you, and hurt or kill if you do not pay. It makes no sense.”

  “You’re not supposed to understand, Lad. You weren’t made to understand, and that’s what I really wanted to talk to you about.” She looked up to him, realizing for the first time that he was actually slightly taller than her. His sandy hair was askew, as always, and she fought the desire to straighten it. His eyes were so strange, so deep, but showing no emotion. She wondered if he was made to feel emotion, and realized that he probably was not. Killing would be easier if he didn’t feel. “I’m worried about you, Lad.”

  “Why?” His head cocked to the side, the curiosity written on his face. “I am in no danger.”

  “I think you are, Lad.” His eyes flashed left and right, and she knew he had misunderstood. “No. Not right now. Let me explain.”

  “Yes. Explain what danger I am in.” He was tense now, wound tight; he looked calm, but she knew better.

  “I think I know why your master made you the way you are, and I don’t just mean the way you fight, and how you’re so fast and strong. I mean the way you don’t know how you should feel about people; the way you were never taught what family or friends are, all the things that most of us learn when we’re little children and take for granted.” She paused, biting her lip, wondering if she should continue.

  “Go on, Wiggen. I want to know what you think.”

  “Okay, but try to understand... you scare me, Lad. I like you, but... you scare me.”

  “Do not fear me, Wiggen.” He raised a hand, and for a moment, she thought he would touch her, but he pulled away again. She could see the strain in him now; the quickening pulse in his neck, the flush of heat that she could actually feel from a foot away.

  “Okay.” She steeled her nerve and continued, heedless. She owed it to him. “You were made to kill, Lad.”

  “Yes. I know this, Wiggen.”

  “No, you don’t know. Listen.” She reached out slowly and took his hand. “Your purpose, this destiny you are looking for... You were made to be someone’s assassin, Lad. You were made to kill for someone who doesn’t want to do it for themselves… or can’t. You were made to follow orders and kill who ever they want, without feeling anything, without knowing you were doing anything wrong.”

  “Wrong?” She felt a quiver of tension in his grip. “Killing is wrong?”

  “Yes, Lad. Killing is wrong. It is the worst crime you can commit. Unless you are protecting someone, like today, killing makes you bad, evil. Like Urik and his men. They would have killed me today. You were made to be like them, but worse, without feeling.”

  “I --” Lad’s eyes were wide with his tumultuous thoughts; she could see the confusion, the denial. “I do not want to be like they were, Wiggen. They were going to hurt you. I would not hurt you. I could not.”

  “Not me, Lad. I know you wouldn’t hurt me, at least not intentionally. I’m talking about other people. Someone went to a lot of trouble to... well, to have you made the way you are. They could use you to kill anyone, anywhere, and you’d do it without remorse or fear or hate even. They took those feelings away from you, Lad; I don’t know how, probably magic, but... you don’t....” She didn’t know how to put it into words. She knew there was something holding him back, something suppressing his humanity, but she couldn’t say what was missing. She squeezed his hand harder, part frustration, part willing him to understand.

  “I do not want to be evil.” The words were an affirmation to everything she was trying to tell him.

  “Then don’t be!” She gripped his hand with hysterical strength, trying to make him feel something. Anything. “You don’t have to follow this path your master put you on, Lad! You could run away, find another way to live.”

  “But today,” he said, his voice calm, his body strained, “I killed those men. You said that was not evil.”

  “Yes, Lad. That was good. You helped us.”

  “So, my destiny could be to protect, to prevent harm.” She could see that his mind had latched onto this explanation like a drowning man reaching for any floating object. She couldn’t make herself tell him that she thought he was wrong and dash his hopes.

  “Yes, Lad. That could be your destiny.”

  “Then I will stay in Twailin. I will find my destiny. If it is evil, I will leave. If it is not, I will stay and fulfill what my master intended for me.”

  “You must be careful, Lad. I’m afraid...”

  “I will not let anyone make me evil, Wiggen. Do not be afraid for me.”

  “I know you don’t want to be evil, but you might not be given a choice. You must be careful!” She brought her other hand up slowly to his face. He tensed, but didn’t withdraw. Her palm brushed his cheek and his whole body quivered at an incredibly high pitch, almost a vibration. His skin was very warm as she let her hand caress up to his ear, and into his hair to twine the sandy strands between her fingers. “Just be careful, Lad. For me.”

  “I will be careful, Wiggen.” His face was still a blank slate, devoid of emotion, but his body sang with suppressed power.

  “Thank you,” she said as she brought her face up to his.

  She pressed her lips to his, feeling his warmth now even more, his skin tingling with heat. His lips were soft, but unmoving, passive. When she opened her eyes, she found him staring into her soul with that bottomless gaze of his. She withdrew, dropped his hand and took a step back.

  “This,” Lad said, his fingers drifting up to his lips, his head cocked in a question, “is something that friends do?”

  “Yes.” She didn’t know how to explain what a kiss was, let alone what she was beginning to feel toward him. “It’s called a kiss. It’s a way for our friendship to grow.”

  “This kiss felt strange to me, Wiggen. I felt like I should defend myself, or flee, but I wanted to stay, too.” His fingers touched his lips and his brow furrowed in thought. “I’m glad you are my friend, Wiggen. I have learned many things from you.”

  “Don’t tell Father about the kiss, okay?” She bit her lip, wondering if she’d made a horrible mistake. “He wouldn’t understand.”

  “Forbish doesn’t know what a kiss is?”

  “He knows, Lad. Just don’t tell him I kissed you. Please.”

  “If you do not want me to, then I will not.”

  “Thank you.” She found that her fingers were wound into her hair, pulling it down over her scar. She felt ashamed, like she’d taken advantage of him, like she’d ruined their friendship. “I better get back to the inn. Goodnight, Lad.” She turned to go.

  “Goodnight, Wiggen,” she heard him say from behind her, but she wasn’t sure if he said anything else. Her heart was pounding too loudly in her ears.

  Chapter XIV

  Targus’ nostrils twitched at the heavy odor of death that pervaded the enclosed space of the stable. He sniffed carefully, thinking, a fortnight at the least. Death in all its forms and stages was something with which he was intimately familiar; it was his business. But that didn’t mean he liked the smell. He wetted a long kerchief from his belt and tied it around his face.

  “Here,” he said, handing another kerchief to Jorrel, the mage who had accompanied him from Twailin,” it dampens the stench.”

  “Thank you.” The mage followed suit, stifling a cough at the thick odor.

  “That mage’s cart is back there in the back,” Constable Burk told them from the door to the stable. “I made sure nobody touched it, but that wasn’t hard with such a stink. Even the stable boy is sleepin’ in the inn these last few days. If you don’t mind, I’ll just stay here.”

  “That’s fine, Constable. You’ve been most helpful in this matter. The Guild will see that you’re compensated for the inconvenience.”

  Targus kept his tone civil, though his mood was muc
h darker. He loathed being sent back to Thistledown for no other reason than to baby-sit this weakling mage. It had taken them four days to travel from Twailin, with a full camp set up every night and Targus cooking for the both of them. Jorrel was not as insufferable as many mages he’d dealt with, simply soft, with his satin robes, pointed shoes and superior air. He tolerated Jorrel by necessity, but much like the smell, he didn’t have to like it.

  The two approached the large two-wheeled cart carefully; it was well lit with the afternoon sun streaming through the stable windows, but wizards secreted many dangerous items among their things when they traveled. Jorrel had assured him of that. Why, even the cart might not be just a simple cart, though with the bumbling constable and his men handling it for so long, anything dangerous should have made itself known by now.

  “Hold here for a moment, if you please, Master Targus.”

  Targus stopped and watched the dainty little man wave his fingers in an intricate pattern and press them to his forehead, eyes closed. He knew Sereth was performing a “seeing,” a simple scan for magical energy. He also knew that all the finger waving was window dressing, a show to make his art seem more mysterious. Seeings didn’t require a spell, per se, just proper concentration on the part of the wizard. He thought for a moment about unveiling Jorrel’s sham, but restrained himself; there was no point in stirring up animosity.

  “The wagon is mundane, but there is much magic here.”

  “Just tell me what not to touch.” Targus moved to the back of the cart and peered in at its contents. There were several bags, boxes and even a small coffer piled under the broad seat, and there was, of course, the tightly wrapped shape of Corillian’s corpse. The bodies of the others had been disposed of.

  “There are many individual items here that may hold some danger for us, Targus.” Jorrel waved his thin hand in a vague manner. “The body, of course, but we will have to unwrap it. That coffer, and the smallest box, also. The rest is mundane, and can be searched at leisure.”

  “Let’s get the body down first, then you can go over it while I look through the other stuff.”

  “I would really rather not --”

  “Helping me lift one corpse down from a wagon won’t tarnish your mystique, Jorrel. Just grab his feet and pull.”

  Jorrel complied with a grumble that Targus found amusing, though he stifled his smile. Once the body was on the ground, the hunter produced a blade from his belt and applied it to the canvas wrappings. The knife was short and curved, designed for separating hide from sinew and parted the thick material with little resistance. What lay beneath crawled with pestilence.

  “Hooaaa!” Targas exclaimed as the full stench of the decomposing corpse hit them like a ram. His head swam for a moment, dizzy with nausea.

  “Here,” Jorrel said, producing a small vial from a pocket, “spirit of peppermint. Dab some on your finger and wipe it under your nose.” He demonstrated and handed the vial to Targus.

  “Thank you.” He applied some of the extract to his upper lip and immediately decided to revise his opinion of the mage. When his nausea had vanished in a heady swirl of peppermint, the two carefully unwrapped the late Master Corillian.

  The search was long, painstaking and, for the most part, fruitless. Jorrel cooed like a child at midwinter gift giving and pocketed many items, but Targus could have cared less. He was interested only in anything pertaining to the Master’s weapon; the mage could stuff his pockets with magical trinkets to his heart’s desire for all he cared. Only when the wizard finally cracked the magical locking mechanism on the small coffer was Targus finally intrigued.

  “A scroll?” Jorrel said, crestfallen. “All that over a simple scroll?”

  Targus peered at the red velvet interior of the coffer; one simple roll of parchment wrapped in black ribbon lay there, the container’s sole occupant.

  “And it’s not even magical!” Jorrel scoffed, after a brief seeing. “What could possibly be so important as to warrant a magically warded coffer?”

  The mage reached for the scroll, but Targus’ hand moved like a striking snake, snatching Jorrel’s wrist before his fingers could brush the rolled parchment.

  “Have a care, Mage! Not all traps are magical!”

  “What?” Jorrel’s eyes widened until Targus released his wrist. “What do you sense?”

  “Sense? Ha!” He removed a thin probe from his belt pouch and held it up to the light. “I sense nothing. I’ve just got a healthy amount of paranoia running through my veins, and it’s kept me alive for a very long time. Watch and learn, Mage.”

  He ran the probe along the rolled parchment, barely brushing the velvet bed on which it lay. When the probe met the black ribbon, it caught there instead of simply bumping over the thin material.

  “That’s what I thought. The ribbon is the trigger. It passes through the velvet and around something beneath, but I can’t tell whether releasing it or pulling it will set off the trap.”

  He stared at it for a moment as if willing its secrets to the surface.

  “It was my first inclination to grasp the scroll and lift it from its bed,” the mage offered. “I think most would do so.”

  “A reasonable assumption, but let me check something before we test that theory.” Targus freed another probe, this one hooked, from his pouch. “If I can get a peek under the covers...”

  He teased up one corner of the velvet bedding and peered underneath.

  “Very nasty indeed.” He peeled back the coverlet for the mage to see, revealing a glass container filled with silvery metallic filings. Under that lay a shifting layer of liquid. The two containers were separated by a thin layer of glass, which was connected to the black ribbon by a golden wire.

  “Elemental potassium, unless I miss my guess,” Jorrel said with a sigh of mixed fear and relief. “That’s probably water beneath. Break the glass and the two mix. The explosion would not only destroy the scroll, but very likely reduce the unlucky burglar to cinders.”

  “Nice.” Targus very carefully untied the bow restraining the parchment and lifted it free. “Now, let’s see what’s so important.” He unrolled the stiff scroll carefully. His eyes widened, and he immediately rolled it back up and stuffed it into a pocket in his cloak.

  “Wait! What was it?” Jorrel stood as Targus lurched to his feet and started out of the stable. “Where are you going?”

  “Back to Twailin. This must be taken to the Grandfather.”

  “Now? But we haven’t even had a meal!” Jorrel trotted after him, past the dumbfounded constable to where their horses were hitched. “You can’t be serious!”

  “Stay here, Jorrel.” Targus leapt into his saddle, his feet touching the stirrups only after his backside was in place. “Go through the rest of Corillian’s things. Keep it all, for all I care. If you don’t want to travel alone, I’ll send someone back for you. I’m going to be moving too fast to have you tagging along.”

  “But what about the --” Jorrel leapt out of the way as Targus kicked his mount into a gallop. “Targus! Wait!”

  But Targus was already gone, and the damned constable was already standing at his elbow, waiting expectantly for the compensation that Targus had promised.

  “Welcome to the Tap and Kettle, good Sir.”

  Forbish wiped his hands on his apron and waved at the all-but-vacant common room. There were just two other customers, a young couple from out of town who were spending the night before traveling downriver. After the recent trouble, rumors were flying around the city like leaves on the wind; their business would suffer for a fortnight at the least. But this man looked wealthy enough to make up for some of the slack.

  “Would you be wanting a room for this evening, or is it just a meal and a draught from one of our fine kegs that you’re here for? We’ve quite a selection of fine ales and stouts, if you’re interested.”

  “Actually, I was recommended to this place by some business associates.” The man dabbed his brow with a kerchief. The gaudy gol
d and silver jewelry at his wrist jingled with every movement. “They said you ran a fine inn, and kept a well-stocked cellar. You must be Master Forbish.”

  “Why, yes!” Forbish offered his hand and gripped the other’s firmly, noting the shrewd narrowing of the man’s eyes. “You are a local businessman, Master...?”

  “Jarred,” he answered, retrieving his hand and nodding to the common room. “And yes. I do my business in many inns throughout the city. I often entertain clients visiting from out of town, and I’m always looking for a new bit of local color to show off to them. Twailin is so diverse, you see.”

  “Yes, of course! Of course!” Forbish showed the man to a table, knowing immediately that this was a very important customer. The innkeeper was no novice at gauging people, and he knew that both he and his establishment were being sized up very carefully. There was scrutiny and a peculiar wariness in the man that he found discomforting. “And your business?”

  “I’m an importer.” He waved a hand inconsequentially, the bracelet chiming. “Just a middle man, so to speak. I handle merchandise between those that supply it and those who sell it to the public. For a small percentage, of course. I was told your ale selection was second to none, which is why I am here. When I entertain I like variety and local flavors.”

  “Perhaps you would like a sample of what we have to offer?” The door to the kitchen creaked as Wiggen brought the couple their dinners. Forbish cast a glance at her and smiled. “I’ll have my daughter bring you a sampler of our best ales.”

  “That would be delightful, Master Forbish. Thank you.”

  Forbish scurried off, following his daughter into the kitchen.

  “That’s a very important customer at that table, Wiggen. Get him a sample of each of our best. None of the dregs, now, mind you. In fact, tap a new barrel of the Keeshire Red. The one on tap’s been open too long.”