“Wheels have been put into motion that cannot be stopped, Mya. The schedule must remain inviolate.”
“Very well, Master.” She turned to go, then stopped and looked back at him, her eyes admirably emotionless in their scrutiny. “He’s going to crack. I don’t know when, but he will, eventually. Then, magic or no, both of us will have to start watching our backs for daggers.”
He watched her go, resisting the compulsion to put a dagger between her shoulder blades. Her questioning of his prudence was more than enough reason to kill her, but her utter conviction told him that she was being honest with him, something he valued almost as much as her loyalty. There was still enough fear in her to keep her in line, but that appeared to be waning. She did not leave in the direction of her quarters, as he suspected she would, but back down into the interrogation chamber. Back down to his weapon. He clenched his jaw rhythmically for more than a minute before he turned back to his exercises. He drew his daggers and wondered which of his weapons would have to be disposed of first.
Exclamations of surprise and alarm rang through the kitchen door from the common room. Before Forbish even had a chance to think, his largest cleaver was in his hand. If those damned cutthroats are back, I’ll show them what for! he raged inwardly as he pounded through the swinging door.
“Here now, you --”
He came up short at the sight of six royal guardsmen standing at the ready in the common room. Their hands were on the hilts of their swords, their faces grim as death. And all of their eyes were on him.
“Forgive me, M’lord Captain!” he spouted, recognizing the insignia on the leader’s collar. He bowed low, putting the cleaver aside. His mind raced for a reason why Royal Guardsmen would be in the Tap and Kettle; it had been hard enough to get a constable to pay a visit when they’d been harassed by Urik and his goons. But his heart knew the answer even if his mind did not, and it leapt into his throat at the prospect of whom they sought. “I heard shouts, and we’ve had trouble of late with ruffians.”
“Rest easy, good innkeeper,” the broad-shouldered captain said, his smile strained with fatigue or pain. Something dire lurked behind the eyes of the gray-haired man, something that Forbish was quite positive he wanted no part of. “We’ve just come to ask some questions. There’s no trouble here.”
“Questions?” He gathered Wiggen to him with a wave of his hand, and he felt her tremors of fear as he drew her close. Josie glared at them all, her caustic tongue muttering curses. “What questions, Captain?”
“As I’m sure you have heard, there have been a number of murders of late.” One of the few customers seated in the common room rose to leave, but he sank back down into his seat at one glance from the guard captain. “We have been told by a reliable source that you have information as to the identity of the assassin.”
“Me?” Forbish squeaked in poorly feigned astonishment. “What do I know of assassins and royalty, M’lord Captain? I’m but a simple innkeeper!” He knew in an instant that the guard captain had not been fooled.
“Even simple men may hear things or know people, Mister Forbish.” The man moved forward casually, his men following as a unit, never letting him lead them by more than two strides. Then the Captain’s flint gray eyes flashed dangerously, pinning Forbish with their intensity. “Eight members of the Duke’s court have fallen to this assassin’s dagger, and ten of my best guardsmen!”
He took one more step and stood directly before Forbish and his trembling daughter, his stern visage glowering down on the both of them and inspiring as much fear as any thug ever had. The innkeeper’s fingers itched for the handle of his cleaver.
“The only description we have of this assassin is that he is a slim young man with sandy hair.” He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he regarded his quarry. “If you know anything of this young man – a name, who he is, who commands him – it would be well done if you told me all.”
“Please, Sir. We don’t know anything about such a man.” He felt Wiggen’s fingernails digging into his arm and feared that she would blurt out the story. “We don’t have anything to do with these murders.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that, Mister Forbish, but I don’t think you’re telling me the whole truth, either.” He turned away and surveyed the inn’s common room as if he were looking to buy the place. He sighed gustily, his broad, warrior’s hands rubbing at the cabled muscles of his neck.
“I’m tired, Mister Forbish,” he said, walking casually to the fireplace, and Forbish could hear the truth in his words. “I’m tired of these murders, I’m tired of not being able to protect those under my charge and I’m tired of writing letters to the wives of my guardsmen who were killed by this assassin you know nothing about.”
“Captain, please! We’ve never even been north of the river! How could we know anything of these killings?”
“But most of all, Mister Forbish,” the captain continued, turning back to the fearful pair and rubbing his weary eyes, “I’m tired of being lied to.”
“Sir!” Forbish spouted, trying to sound indignant. “I’ll not be called a liar in my own inn, even by the Captain of the Royal Guard! We know nothing of this assassin.” Unfortunately, Forbish was at heart an honest man, and he could see in the captain’s face that his performance was not having the desired effect.
“Very well, Mister Forbish.” The captain motioned two of his men forward. “I know from several of your neighbors and business associates that you had a boy working for you for several weeks who fit this description quite well. They have not seen him for several days, but they remember him. If you are having a lapse in memory, perhaps we might remedy it.”
Without another word from the captain, the two guardsmen peeled Wiggen from Forbish’s arm and held her.
“No! Please don’t hurt her, Captain! She’s got nothing to do with it!” He surged forward, but the captain placed one broad fist against his chest, forcing him back. Forbish’s breath came in short gasps, his head spinning with dizziness. “Please, Sir. She’s the only family I’ve got left!”
“We’re not going to hurt her, Mister Forbish,” he said, disgust souring his tone. “We are not thugs! When you remember more about this young man who worked for you, your daughter will be released.”
“We did have a lad working for us, Captain, but...” He stopped short at the look in his daughter’s eyes. She hadn’t spoken a word or uttered a peep of protest, and now he understood why. There was fear in her, but not for her own safety. She was afraid for Lad, afraid of what the Royal Guard would do to him if they caught him. Her eyes were wide with horror, and her head shook once, denying him the words that meant her freedom.
“But what?” The captain advanced upon him again, hands on his hips, eyes like arrow slits ready to shoot the portly innkeeper dead. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“He stole from us.” He put all he could into the lie, and hoped. “He wouldn’t admit it, but he stole, sure enough. I didn’t want him to go to prison for it, so I just sent him away. I don’t know where he went after he left.” The last part was true enough.
The captain’s eyes roved over Forbish, then shifted sideways to scrutinize Wiggen. “It’s plain to me that either one or both of you knows a good bit more than you’re telling. My apologies for this, Mister Forbish, but there are lives at stake.” He nodded to the men who held Wiggen. “Take her out.”
Forbish stood trembling helplessly as they took from him the only thing in the world he truly cared about.
Sweat trickled down her torso as she moved through the intricate dance, her body straining to accommodate the elaborate mixture of forms.
“Left turn, block with right palm...”
He took her through the dance, watching as he accompanied her, his movements mirroring hers. His voice was a mantra in her ears, her mind enveloping it, her body moving as he directed without her conscious thought.
“...twist, kick left, turn and strike. Sweep and block right...”
/> Time and thought flowed through her like water over a miller’s wheel, turning her, bringing her forward, but not really moving her. The moves of the dance were so fluid, so right, that she was lost in it, barely needing his prompts even after only a few hours of instruction.
“...sweep, turn...”
The exercise had started out simply as something to take his mind away from the tasks that were appointed him, the tasks that were slowly driving him over the brink of darkness from which there would be no return. She sought only to distract him, to lure him away from his troubles with teaching her the exercises that he performed every morning.
“...strike...yes...yes...”
He’d asked many questions at first: why did she wish to learn, what did she already know, how many years had she practiced, what weapons was she proficient with and had she ever been trained to fight without them? And at first she had been awkward and slow, trying to memorize the dance as if it were something she could learn by rote. It was not. It was more than a series of movements. She knew now; it was art, music, poetry and dance all put in a martial genre, and now it flowed through her body like water through a funnel, directed but still moving, unchanged.
His voice faded away, and still they moved together through the forms of the dance. She’d felt nothing like it, such synergy with another. It was the closest to intimacy she had ever been.
“Mya.”
She reacted without thinking, whirling toward the unfamiliar voice, her posture slipping into the defensive crouch of the dance.
“What are you doing?” the Grandfather asked, descending the stairs into the chamber with his usual fluid grace. His countenance was stern and unreadable. Her mind raced for a moment with all the possible reasons he was here. He had not come down to the interrogation chamber since Lad’s arrival. Three reasons for his presence came to her, and two meant her death.
“I am learning the exercises that your weapon has been taught, Grandfather.” She bowed, thankful that she had retained a breechcloth and halter despite Lad’s suggestion that her clothing was too restrictive to perform the dance properly.
“Why?” He stopped before them, less than striking distance away, his hands invisible within his cloaks. She wondered briefly if they were clutching the hilts of his daggers.
“Two reasons, Grandfather,” she said, finding herself strangely calm at the prospect of facing his wrath. Lad stood beside her, but she knew he could not help her if the Grandfather decided to strike her down. She could rely only on herself, as she always had. “First, for reasons we discussed earlier I thought to distract him. Second, I find the forms of his exercises interesting and wished to learn them for my own purposes.”
“And have you?”
She shrugged noncommittally. “You ask the pupil if she has learned the lesson properly. I don’t know.” She glanced sidelong at Lad. “Ask the teacher.”
“Well,” he said, his eyes flickering to his weapon, “has she?”
“No, Master.”
Mya’s eyes were on the Grandfather, so she saw the corner of his mouth twitch minutely in amusement. She had expected Lad’s admission, so there was no surprise for her. No one could assimilate such a complex repertoire in such a short time. She had learned the moves, but to learn the forms and how they interacted to create the dance would take many months. Even then, to be proficient would take years.
“Well, then,” he said, turning back to her, his tone shifting from amusement to ire, “have you at least accomplished something this day?”
“Yes, Master. He has been instructed regarding this evening’s targets, and he has recovered fully from his previous injuries.”
“All of them?”
“All of the physical injuries are healed, and he has regained his strength and agility. As to the other, I have no idea.” She looked at Lad again, and could see the curiosity whirling behind his eyes. “Time will tell.”
“Good enough.” The Grandfather took a small scroll from within his robes and handed it to Mya. “There is an additional task which must be performed tonight. My spy within the Royal Guard has informed me that they have procured a witness, someone who has evidently seen or known our reluctant weapon.”
Mya unrolled the scroll, recognizing the sketched layout of the barracks of the Royal Guard.
“This threat must be eliminated. Instruct him to see to this first. The holding cells beneath the barracks should be no more difficult to access than any of the other fortified buildings in which we have eliminated targets.” He turned in a swirl of cloaks and ascended the stairs, a silent cloud, malignant and terrible in his indifference. “After she is dead, he is to eliminate the scheduled targets.”
“Yes, Master,” Mya said, her eyes still absorbing the details of the scroll. The door closed, snapping her attention from the task detailed before her to the one to whom it would befall. Her stomach clenched at the thought of giving Lad his instructions.
“She’s being held beneath the barracks complex, one level down. There will be at least a dozen guards. One will have keys to the cell.”
“Who is it?” he asked, innocent and unknowing.
“You know who.” She handed him the scroll, shivering as the sweat of her previous exertions cooled on her skin. “Read it.”
“It’s Wiggen.” His voice was as calm and matter of fact as always, but she could see the strain in him. “They found out where I stayed before you took me. They took her to get to me.”
“Yes.” She watched the realization dawn behind his eyes, and hated herself for what she knew she had to tell him.
“You are going to order me to kill her.” His tone was flat, emotionless, but his eyes were alight with pain.
“Yes.”
“She is my friend, Mya. You cannot -- I will not kill her.” The parchment fluttered from his quivering grasp. She watched him, saw the telltale signs of the conflict building within him.
“I’m sorry.” The words came from her mouth before she could stop them, and their effect on Lad was astounding.
“You are sorry?” Tracings of light flared along his sweat-streaked torso, and she knew that the magic that restrained him was the only thing keeping her alive. “How can you be sorry? This is something you can change, Mya. You do not have to order me to kill Wiggen. You can run away. Flee. Go from here and you will not have to order me to kill my friend.”
“It wouldn’t matter, Lad.” She glanced over her shoulder at the room’s one door. “If I did not, he would.”
“Then help me k --” The plea ended with a flare of light from the runes that imprisoned his soul. He could not ask it. She had ordered him not to. The light and heat dimmed, and Mya had not shied away from it. “Help me do as I have asked.”
“He would kill me.” She was surprised that there was so little fear in that admission.
He stood there, the magical light of the runes fading completely as they stared at one another. How much time passed, she could not tell. It was like during the exercise, the dance he had taught her; time moved past without touching her.
“Read the scroll,” she said finally, breaking that implacable gaze. She turned away and recovered her tunic from the table. “One glass after the sun has set, go to the barracks of the Royal Guard and kill the girl they are holding in the cells below. Kill anyone who sees you. Kill anyone who tries to stop you. Don’t allow yourself to be captured, injured or killed.” She struggled into the garment, her damp skin hindering her actions. “When you have done this, proceed to the other two targets, unless you are badly injured. If you are too injured to perform the other tasks safely, return here.”
She recovered her trousers, stepping into them mechanically. She cinched the belt tight and looked at him, still standing there immobile, a statue of flesh and bone. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mya. I understand.” The words were totally without feeling, without anger or remorse, pain or anguish. Then he turned to her and regarded her with eyes she felt were looking stra
ight into her soul. “But do you understand?”
She felt the words like a blow to the stomach.
There was only one answer.
“Yes, Lad. I understand.”
She walked past him and climbed the stairs, wondering if she would ever truly feel human again.
Chapter XXIII
Blood and shadow flowed through the barracks of the Royal Guard.
A second floor window with squeaky bronze hinges yielded, and two guards died before they were fully awake.
One... Two..., he thought. Wives, sons, daughters, friends...
Outside the door a guard walked by, his boots thumping on the stone floor. The door opened. The guard turned and died before his hand could touch his sword. He was lowered gently to the floor, his last breath escaping from between his killer’s fingers.
Three...
He put the body with the others. Ten minutes would pass until the guard was missed.
The stairs took him down to the main mess. Four guards sat at a table chatting, and drinking blackbrew. Their conversation was predictable; they were talking about him. He could not take four silently, he knew. Others would come. He could hear the shuffling feet of two more as they stood outside the doors to the mess. His goal lay beyond this room, and there was no way around. He might be able to skirt the shadows of the room and remain unseen, but that would mean taking a risk that his orders forbade: Kill anyone who sees you.
Wives, children, friends...
He lunged from hiding, and two men died before the others could even react. One of the others managed a truncated shout before he was deprived of the ability to breathe. The other drew steel, and spent his last moments fighting for his life. The result was the same.
Sorry... so sorry...
The noise brought the other guards. One died with a short sword thrown through his chest. The other raised a crossbow and fired, but before she even lowered the bow, the bolt came back upon the path it had flown. Her puzzled expression lay frozen, transfixed by the shaft. He closed her eyes with two blood-slicked fingers and moved on.
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