Weapon of Flesh

by Chris A. Jackson

  “Uh... I don’t know. I never thought of it that way. I don’t know if you can get more. Some people have more than others, and some just have it when they really need it, like Father. He’s not very courageous, but he did what he had to do when you were taken away.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Oh, he asked some old friends of his if they knew anything about you, and he found out that they were just as afraid as he was.” She laughed shortly. “I think that surprised him more than a little.”

  “What were they afraid of?”

  “The people who took you, I guess. Father was scared of these old friends of his, but they were even more scared.”

  “They were right to be scared, Wiggen. The man who had me made, they call him The Grandfather. He is old, and he is evil. He was using me to put pressure on the Duke for some reason. He wants something, but I’m not sure what. I think Mya knows, but she never told me.”

  “Mya?” She felt a tug at her stomach. “Who’s that?”

  “She’s an assassin, a hunter. She’s the one who caught me.” He looked at the palm of his hand as if it held some secret, and smiled thinly. “She’s very treacherous, and very smart.” He looked back to her. “She was my keeper. She gave me orders, made sure I was fed, clothed and healthy enough to keep killing for the Grandfather.”

  “She sounds terrible,” she said, not liking the tone of Lad’s voice when he spoke of this woman.

  “I don’t think she liked what she was being made to do, but she did it anyway. She was a slave, like me, but she would not admit it.” His short bark of laughter caught Wiggen off guard. “I was trying to convince her to help me kill the Grandfather, but she wouldn’t do it, of course. She was probably smart not to. He would have killed her.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that, so she just sat and watched him, trying to imagine all of the things that had happened to him and wondering if she really wanted to know.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked suddenly, breaking the silent tension.

  “Starving!” she admitted, pushing herself up as he vaulted to his feet and retrieved the bundle.

  “Come eat then.” He began laying out cheese, bread and a link of hard sausage.

  She joined him and they ate together, the conversation lagging in favor of much-needed food. But while she ate, Wiggen wondered. She wondered at all the terrible things that had befallen Lad, at what they would do now that he was free, and she wondered most of all why he had so suddenly changed the subject.

  Chapter XXV

  Mya walked unhindered through the gates of the Grandfather’s estate just before the orb of the sun had risen over the high walls. The guards just nodded, letting her pass without a challenge. They knew her now; they knew she was the Grandfather’s favorite and, regardless of her diminutive rank, they treated her with respect. That was one of the few advantages she’d gained with her position. On the walk from the gate to the estate steps, however, she realized that something was amiss. The stable boys raked dung and hauled hay, but without their usual banter. Twice as many guardsmen as usually manned the outer wall now walked in pairs at odd intervals around the lofty perimeter. They followed her progress across the courtyard, questions unasked hidden behind their narrowed gazes. The Grandfather’s valet stood at the foyer, his arms folded, his face even more of a scowl than usual.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked without preamble.

  His eyes flickered to hers with open annoyance before he gave a short shrug and said, “He is gone.”

  “Who?”

  “Who do you think?”

  With all she’d been through in the last few days, the valet’s insolence grated on her like a dull blade on bone. Without thought, she produced a dagger from the folds of her dress. One step and a truncated thrust brought the tip of her blade to rest under the point of his chin.

  “I asked who had gone missing! I already know one person is missing, I wish to know if there is another. If this is too much for your menial little mind to grasp, I’ll ask someone else,” she twitched the tip of the dagger just enough to break the skin, “right after I have your kidneys on toast for my breakfast! Now answer me!”

  “The Grandfather is missing,” he said without moving his jaw in the slightest. “He has not been seen since you left earlier this morning.”

  She withdrew the dagger, wiped its tip on her dress and sheathed it. “And he didn’t say where he was going?”

  “If he said where he was going, he wouldn’t be missing, now would he?” The valet wiped the blood from his chin with the back of his hand and looked at the red smear disdainfully.

  She ignored him and walked away, wondering if insolence to the point of stupidity was a prerequisite for the position of Guildmaster’s Valet. She had little doubt that he’d looked in all the likely places, so she resigned herself to waiting for the Grandfather’s return. In the meantime, she could do with a bath and some much-needed sleep.

  Another advantage of her position was the use of the estate staff. Within minutes she had a huge copper tub full of steaming water in her chambers and an attendant waiting with soap, towels and a warmed robe. In those few minutes she drafted a succinct account of her findings at the barracks and told one of the attendants to see that the Grandfather received it upon his return.

  Submersed in hot water, a trained masseuse kneading the knots out of the muscles of her shoulders, she felt the tension begin to melt away.

  Lad was gone, and now the Grandfather as well. There was relief and unease combined in both of their absences. She knew Lad wasn’t dead; the guardsman she’d seduced would have spilled that much, she was sure. How he’d circumvented the magic was a mystery to her, but one she felt no compulsion to solve. He was free; she couldn’t change that. What he would do with his newly won freedom was of much more concern.

  Clean, dry and enveloped in the robe’s comforting folds, she began to feel somewhat human. As the servants cleared away the tub, Mya pulled the heavy drapes to block out the morning sun. She slipped out of the robe, climbed into the plush bed, drew up the covers and closed her eyes. But despite her exhaustion, her thoughts were a tumult of images, worries and dangers. Death could come for her at any moment from either of two likely directions: the Grandfather, who might kill her for her failure to keep his weapon secure, and Lad, who, now that he was free from his magical bonds, would be out for blood.

  And not just her blood.

  That could work to her advantage, she thought, if Lad came for the Grandfather. Depending on how that encounter played out, she might come out of this with her skin intact. She rolled over and tried to relax, but sleep was a long time coming.

  “Bloody Hells,” Forbish muttered, as the heavy bag of flour hit the floor and flames of pain coursed up his back. He straightened, grinding his knuckles into the spot that plagued him. The pain eased, and he bent again to pick up the bag.

  “Here, now! Don’t you lift that,” Josie scolded, backing through the door to the main room, laden with a stack of cups and saucers. “You’ll hurt yourself serious, and then what are you going to do?”

  “Who else will do it?” he grumbled, dropping the bag onto the counter with a grimace. He stiffened his posture and ladled several cups of flower into his largest mixing bowl. “Until Wiggen’s back, there’s naught but me to do the lifting.” He cracked six eggs, two at a time, with one hand while he poured fresh milk into the bowl with the other.

  “Oh, and what am I?” Josie put the cups down and bustled over, glaring all the way. “I’m not just another pretty face you know!” She lifted the flour off the counter and balanced it on her hip while she tied the bag closed and railed at him. “Which is another thing I been meanin’ to tell you. You take too much onto yourself. Let someone else do some work around here. I’ve got two good-for-nothin’ nephews who’d be tickled to death to come work for you, just until Wiggen gets back, you know. You needn’t pay them much. They’re better off here than rattin’ around down by the
docks where there’s only trouble.”

  “I don’t know, Josie,” he said, adding the remaining ingredients for his oatcakes and beating the batter with a large spoon. “I’ve got to figure out a way to get Wiggen back, but all the work’s piling up around here. It wouldn’t feel right hiring strangers. Maybe I should close the inn for a few days.”

  “Here now, what kind of talk is that?” Josie heaved the bag of flour back into its protective bin and closed the lid tightly. “They wouldn’t be strangers; they’d be my nephews. If they touch one thing they oughtn’t, I’ll wale ’em within an inch of their scrawny lives!”

  Forbish opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by a booming call of “INNKEEPER!” from the main room. His eyes widened in worry, and he dusted his hands on his apron.

  “Oh, what now?”

  Josie followed him through the door.

  They were confronted by a contingent of royal guard that seemed to flood into the common room without end. A full troop of twenty had already startled the few patrons out of their seats and backed them up against the hearth, and more came through the doors with every passing second. None of the guardsmen had drawn weapons, but their mere presence was intimidating enough. Forbish and Josie found themselves backed into the corner by a gruff-looking sergeant and two nervous men-at-arms.

  “What’s this about?” Forbish managed to ask despite the sudden shock. “Who’s in charge here?”

  “Captain Norwood’s in charge, Innkeeper. Now you just keep your mouth shut until we got this place squared away.” The sergeant glanced over his shoulder and snapped, “Corporal, secure the kitchen. Take a squad and sing out if you see so much as a mouse!”

  “Aye, Sergeant!” The corporal gathered together five guardsmen and burst through the door into the kitchen, hands on their sword hilts.

  “The rest of you quarter and search the upstairs. Don’t take any chances! Any door that’s locked gets the boot! Go!”

  Sixteen guards thundered up the stairs to the second floor as Forbish’s guests stared on in shock, taken aback by the invasion of their privacy but too afraid to say anything. The guards’ departure thinned the crowd in the common room enough for Forbish to finally spot the man in charge of this invasion.

  “Captain Norwood!” he shouted, fear and anger vying to edge his words. “This is twice in as many days you’ve invaded the Tap and Kettle. Have you come to take the rest of us under custody for these murders we know nothing about?”

  “Curb your indignity, Master Forbish, or at least save it for someone who gives a damn.” The Captain strode through the assembled guardsmen like a ship parting a choppy sea, and when he finally stood before Forbish, the innkeeper could tell he was very near the limit of his temper. “Your daughter is no longer in my custody. I’ve come here to make sure she hasn’t returned home and to try to find the murdering bastard who freed her.”

  “Wiggen’s gone?” Forbish surged forward, ignoring guards. They held him back as his heart hammered in his chest. He felt it would surely break if Wiggen were dead. She was the last family he had! If she were gone… “What’s happened to her? You said she’d be safe!”

  “Eleven of my guardsmen died trying to protect your daughter, Innkeeper,” the captain said through grinding teeth, his hand clenched white on his sword’s hilt. “We are going to search this inn for any sign of her. If I find so much as a scrap of bloodied cloth, I’m going to take you in and lock you in the deepest, darkest hole in the Duke’s dungeon. Is that perfectly clear?”

  “Yes, Captain,” he muttered, his thoughts whirling in an attempt to make sense of this. Clearly, Lad had taken Wiggen; no one else could wade through a dozen royal guardsmen and survive. But Lad couldn’t have been acting on his own. Or could he? Stealing Wiggen away didn’t make sense. If someone was controlling him, killing her would have been easier and would have kept her quiet for good. That should have been enough. It made no sense, unless Lad had freed her on his own. Which would mean there was a chance she was still alive. Hope blossomed in him, but he was unsure exactly what to do with his newly found optimism.

  To the sound of boots thundering around upstairs, he realized that there was at least one thing he could do. He produced a ring of keys from his pocket and held them out to the captain.

  “There’s no need to go busting down doors, Captain. These open every door in the place from basement to rafters.” The captain took them with a nod and handed them to another guardsman who ran upstairs. “And you’ll want to have a look at Wiggen’s room. It’s in the back, through there. I know you won’t believe me, but I haven’t seen her since you took her away.”

  “Actually, I do believe you, Master Forbish.” The officer’s face softened a bit then, and Forbish could see the fatigue and pain beneath the iron facade. “I’m not trying to harass you or bully you into telling me anything new by coming here, but I had to search the inn, and I’m through losing guardsmen to this murderer. I need to know why your daughter was taken and not killed, and I need to know why the murders scheduled to occur last night didn’t happen. Something has changed—I can feel it—but I don’t know enough about this killer or his motives to make a decent guess.”

  “You look like you could use a cup of blackbrew, Captain,” Forbish said, thinking that the captain would make a much better ally than an enemy. If the man was right, and something had changed, maybe it was time to tell him some of what he knew. “I was about to serve breakfast to my guests here when your men came in. If you let them sit back down, and take a seat yourself, I’d be willing to sit and have a chat with you.”

  “I could use a cup at that, thank you. Sergeant, have the men here go search the barn and the cow byre. Let the guests relax. When the search is finished, leave a squad and take the rest back to the barracks.”

  “Aye Captain.” The sergeant made a few gestures, and all but four guardsmen left for the barn. He then took up station next to the fireplace, arms folded, scowling at the entire room.

  “Just have a seat over here, Captain,” Forbish offered, guiding the man to the table nearest the kitchen door. “I’ve got a kettle on, and there’ll be oat cakes with honey for you if you’re hungry. Josie here will see to you until I finish cooking.”

  “Thank you.” Captain Norwood took a seat and Josie set a place for him, casting curious glances over her shoulder at Forbish while she worked.

  “I’ll be out with blackbrew for you in a moment.” He nodded to Norwood and winked at Josie, as he headed for the kitchen. “I’ll bring out a cup for your sergeant, too, just to show there’s no hard feelings.”

  He opened the damper to the stove and put the kettle over the firebox. Cooking was like meditation for Forbish; it calmed his nerves and helped him think. By the time he had a stack of steaming oatcakes on the sideboard and six cups of blackbrew on a tray for Josie to take out to the Captain and his men, he’d figured out just how much to tell Norwood. He only hoped it was enough to save his daughter, and maybe even enough to save Lad as well.

  After their makeshift breakfast, Wiggen and Lad had both grown sleepy. At first she closed her eyes contentedly and slipped off to a dreamless slumber, but exhaustion not withstanding, the floor of an abandoned laundry is not a bed, and in a matter of hours she found herself tossing and turning. Finally, she opened her eyes in frustration.

  Lad lay perfectly still, his eyes open and staring at the ceiling.

  “You’re awake,” she said, pushing herself up. “You should be sleeping. You must be exhausted.”

  “I cannot sleep,” he said with a weak smile. He brushed the burns on his chest and winced. “These blisters will not let me rest, and my mind is full of thoughts that will not let sleep come to me.” He rolled up to a sitting position, and she noticed the blanket beneath him was splotched with moisture. Many of the blisters on his back had burst.

  “We should find some salve to put on those blisters,” she said, gathering her blanket around herself. “If they go septic you’ll get sic
k.”

  “I’ve never been sick before.” He shook his head, his smile faintly pinched. “I wouldn’t know if I did get sick. What does sick feel like?”

  “You feel weak, tired, nauseous. You’d know if you felt it.”

  “Maybe I am already sick. I feel strange, like there is something in my mind that will not rest. I feel all these things, think all these things, and it will not stop.”

  “What do you think about?” she asked, hoping to bring his trouble out into the open. Perhaps it was something she could help him overcome. The Gods knew he’d helped her enough; some reciprocity would make her feel less helpless.

  “I should tell you what I do not think about, Wiggen,” he said with a laugh. “It would be a shorter list!”

  “Sounds to me like you’re worrying too much.” She reached out and rested her hand on his knee. “Tell me some of it. Maybe I can help.”

  “Very well. My foremost worry is what will become of us. Where will we go? How will we live?” He gestured to her, then to himself. “We are both easily recognizable, and the Grandfather has a very long reach. Eluding him will be very difficult.”

  “Well, we could ask my father for... uh.” He was already shaking his head.

  “The Duke’s Guard is also seeking us. The Tap and Kettle will be watched by both the Duke’s men and the Grandfather’s.”

  “We could slip out of town on a barge, couldn’t we? Head down the river to Southaven? The Grandfather can’t reach that far.”

  “I don’t know how far Southaven is, but getting out of the city on a barge would be dangerous. The Grandfather has men on the docks. He is deeply involved in trade. I think that might have been part of the reason he was pressuring the Duke. Something to do with trade on the river.”

  “Well, there are other ways out of the city. He can’t watch every gate all the time.”

  “Yes he can, Wiggen, and he will. We might be able to spot his watchers, but the only way to keep them from telling the Grandfather of our passage would be to kill them.” His expression grew grave. “I do not want to kill anyone I do not have to kill.”