“She may be young, but she is skilled. Her defenses are formidable and her revenge swift.” Neera’s wizened lips curved into a cruel smile directed at the Master Inquisitor. “As your predecessor learned.”
Patrice’s eyes shot daggers, but she didn’t reply. Everyone in the room knew how the former Master Inquisitor had fallen; Mya’s retaliation for an attempt on her life. The attempt wasn’t the problem, but Patrice’s predecessor had made the fatal mistake of leaving a trail that the Master Hunter could trace back to her.
“We’ll see how skilled she is.” Youtrin’s scarred face stretched into a smug smile as he leaned back in his creaking chair.
“Shut up!” Horice fired a dirty look at the Master Enforcer.
Idiot, Sereth thought, then revised his assessment. Twice idiot! Once for agreeing to help Youtrin kill Mya, and again for opening your mouth about it among the other masters. Of course he knew what they were planning. It would have been difficult not to know, since he spent nearly every waking hour in Horice’s shadow. And though they might not agree on much else, Horice and Youtrin shared a dislike of the young Master Hunter. Mya’s dismissal of their condescending council had fostered that dislike, and it wasn’t improved by her unconventional practices.
“Not another one!” Patrice’s glossy lips tilted in a disapproving frown. “Don’t you two ever get tired of trying to kill everyone who insults your fragile egos?”
“What I’m tired of is listening to you tell me what I should and shouldn’t do!” Horice’s hand shifted to the hilt of the rapier at his hip, and Sereth stiffened. Though the hilt was below the table, the movement of Horice’s shoulder brought Patrice’s bodyguard’s attention to bear. Sereth gauged the angles between them. Though fetching, the deep V of her décolletage made an apt target.
Neera raised a wrinkled hand. “Enough of this bickering! I call this meeting to order. I suggested that we meet to discuss this very issue.”
“Good!” Youtrin sat up in his chair, his brutish features intent. “It’s about time we did something about that insolent whelp!”
“You misunderstand me, Master Youtrin.” Eyes like pools of acid fixed the Master Enforcer with a pitiless gaze. “I speak of our continued inability to cooperate. This intra-guild squabbling makes us weak, and the Thieves Guild is pressing at every chink in our armor.”
“That’s the truth! A couple of my boys were roughed up on their rounds just yesterday.” Youtrin cracked his knuckles, a sound like popping corn. “Our protection racket lost two more clients! Damned thieves undercut our rates, and they don’t bluff about enforcing their new territory.”
“It’s not their territory; it’s territory they stole from you!” Horice corrected. “They’re pushing everywhere. It’s got to stop!”
“So you two are diverting resources to attack a master in our own guild instead of focusing on the real enemy! That makes sense!” Patrice’s sneer of contempt earned her a glare from the Master Blade.
“Slapping down that contemptuous little bitch isn’t a matter of business, it’s a matter of principle. She disrespects us, all of us.”
“I disagree, Horice. It is a matter of business.” Neera’s calm tone juxtaposed his acerbic one, though Sereth could see her jaw muscles tense through her thin skin. “Resources allocated to one effort are necessarily diverted from others. We fight each other, so we have fewer resources to combat our true enemies. We must cooperate, or we will fall. We’ve lost a tenth of our territory south of the river in the last year, and revenues reflect that loss. Our lost income has surpassed the gains we enjoyed from not having to support a guildmaster.”
“How can we cooperate when one of our own masters won’t even come to council meetings?” Youtrin protested. “She refuses to lend her Hunters where they’re needed, and won’t even discuss issues that impact our operations. She’s the one who suggested we could do without a guildmaster!”
“Yes, she did, and if you remember, it worked. Unfortunately, differences of opinion and refusals to compromise led to disagreements and this current lack of cooperation.” Neera’s tone had hardened, and her eyes flicked to all the others in turn, accusative and piercing. “The visit from the Grandmaster’s representative to collect last quarter’s revenues was not pleasant. She grilled me for a full hour about this situation, and I assume you all experienced the same. If this continues, we’ll face sanction by the Grandmaster.”
“Sanction?” Patrice’s eyes widened. That word meant only one thing within the guild. “Kill us for squabbling? He wouldn’t dare!”
“The Grandmaster has the authority to take any action he deems fit,” Neera reminded her. “Our goal should be to make sure he does not see the necessity to replace us. We must cooperate!”
“And how do you propose we do that when we can’t even make the youngest and most inexperienced of this council attend a meeting?” Horice shifted in his seat, and every bodyguard in the room tensed.
“This meeting is not about Master Hunter Mya!” Neera’s lips constricted into a shriveled moue. “Her revenues are the highest among the guild factions. Instead of denouncing her youth and inexperience, perhaps you should consider emulating her success!”
“Success? She runs her Hunters like a band of peasants for hire! She takes contracts that do nothing to further the influence of the guild! She’s even performed services for the thrice-damned Royal Guard!” Horice was in full rant mode now, and even the sternest glare from Neera could not quell his ire. “Sure, she makes more money than the rest of us! We’re specialists, and Hunters are generalists, which means she suffers least from the lack of cooperation. She refuses to cooperate, thwarts us at every turn, and it makes her look good! She doesn’t follow the tenants of the council she suggested we form! She votes against every initiative this council puts forth, all for her own gain! She’s reckless and greedy!”
“And what does she do with her gains?” Youtrin put in, feeding off of Horice’s temper. “She isn’t even maintaining the image of her position as a master! She lives in that hovel of a pub!”
“Enough!” Neera’s tone stifled their rants like a snuffed candle. “None of us are following the rules we all agreed to five years ago, Horice. I see only two options to help this situation, cooperate or appoint a new guildmaster.”
“Fine! I move that we vote to pick a new leader of the Twailin Assassins Guild right now.”
“Another vote?” Patrice slumped in her seat, obviously disgusted.
“Seconded!” Youtrin said.
Neera’s eyes narrowed and her jaw muscles bunched and writhed until Sereth thought her teeth might shatter. There had been numerous such votes, and none had passed. The Master Alchemist always sided with Mya on this issue, and Patrice generally voted with Neera. Horice and Youtrin voted together as if joined at the hip. With Mya absent, the likely result was a stalemate.
“Very well. A quorum is present. All in favor of appointing a new guildmaster.”
Horice and Youtrin raised their hands; no surprise there. The corner of Neera’s mouth twitched in the hint of a smile.
“All opposed?” Neera raised her hand and looked to Patrice, but the Master Inquisitor did not raise her hand. “Patrice?”
The Inquisitor looked at her, then away. “I abstain.”
Sereth cocked an eyebrow in surprise. This was a switch. Patrice wasn’t exactly thwarting the Master Alchemist, but she wasn’t supporting her either. Likewise, she wasn’t supporting Horice and Youtrin. What the hells is she up to?
“The vote is two to one, Neera! The motion carries! We select a new guildmaster!”
“I nominate Master Alchemist Neera.” Patrice glanced back to the older woman and smiled, then faltered when the Alchemist’s lips remained pressed in a thin, hard line of displeasure.
Sereth squinted in confusion. What just happened here? But before he could fathom a plausible reason for the Patrice’s actions or Neera’s response, the Master Alchemist huffed and continued.
“Before we entertain nominations, we need a new guildmaster’s ring.”
Sereth shuddered. He remembered the previous guildmaster’s ring all too well. Prior to becoming Horice’s bodyguard, he had served as the Grandfather’s assistant. The other journeymen had envied him for his position at the luxurious estate, currying the favor of the guildmaster. What they hadn’t known was that every dawn he had wondered if he would survive until dusk. The Grandfather had taken lives at a whim, and tolerated no misstep or annoyance. Obsidian woven with gold and enchanted with powerful magics, the guildmaster’s ring ensured the wearer’s safety from all others in the Twailin Assassins Guild, just as the masters’ rings protected their wearers from those within their factions. The rings were magically bound to the blood contracts that all assassins signed when they were accepted into the guild.
“We’ll all share equally in the ring’s cost.”
“Agreed, but…” Youtrin’s thick brow furrowed, as if thinking too deeply pained him. “I move that we don’t inform Mya of this until after the new guildmaster is in place. She didn’t help us make this decision; I see no reason to inform her until it’s done.”
“Seconded!” Horice flashed a wide grin and gave Youtrin a nod of approval. “At the least, it will prevent her from squawking about it until after the fact.”
“All in favor?”
Surprisingly, in this if nothing else, all four masters agreed.
They fear Mya, Sereth thought, then amended his supposition, or her weapon.
“Very well. I’ll contract a mage to forge the ring and contact you when it’s finished.” Neera raked the room with a sardonic glare. “Do try not to kill one another until it’s done. Any more business for the council?”
There was none.
“Very well. This meeting is adjourned.”
The masters stood, and their bodyguards moved to usher them out. Patrice and Neera disappeared through the door that led to the common room of the brothel, cheerful chatter and laughter reaching Sereth’s ear’s until the door shut behind them. Youtrin and Horice both turned toward the exit through the back hall to the alley where their carriages waited. Sereth took his time plucking his master’s cloak from the rack beside the door and draping it over the man’s shoulders. As he’d hoped, the Enforcers preceded them out the door. Despite the apparent camaraderie between Horice and Youtrin, he didn’t trust the thugs as far as he could throw them. By the time the Blades reached the outer door, Youtrin’s carriage had already pulled away into the rain-soaked darkness.
“Bloody rain!” Horice drew up the hood of his weather cloak as he squinted out the door. “My bones ache with this blasted weather!”
“Yes, Master.”
Springtime in Twailin was a wet affair. Moist air rolled across the lowlands from the western ocean before slamming into the towering bluffs to the east, the high, steep walls of the ancient crater that contained the Bitter Sea. The result was rain. For three months, only shreds of pale sun eked through the constant covering of clouds, and the heavens opened up daily. It was not a cold rain—the lowlands were far enough south that the weather rarely, if ever, warranted a heavy cloak—but the constant dank weather chilled the soul. When summer finally arrived, the blistering heat was a welcome change.
As the carriage pulled to a stop in the alley, Horice started to step out into the rain, but Sereth put a restraining hand on his arm.
“Garrote weather, Master. Best let me check.”
“Right. Thank you, Sereth. Don’t know what I was thinking.”
Sereth looked up and down the alley, then stepped out into the rain and turned to check above the doorway. He was well-acquainted with the advantages of garrote weather, having used them himself. The constant hiss of rain on cobbles and the roar of deluges from downspouts prevented a mark from hearing an assassin’s approach, and a heavy rain aided concealment. On the other hand, a downpour could ruin the trajectory of an arrow or bolt, darts or shuriken. Consequently, springtime was the season for close work, and garrote, dagger, and cudgel were the weapons of choice.
Tonight nothing lurked in the shadows above the door. Sereth crouched to peer under the carriage. Nothing. Lastly, he opened the carriage door and checked inside.
“Clear, Master.”
“Very good.” Horice hurried across the gap and boarded, shaking the rain from his cloak as Sereth ducked inside and took a seat. “Bloody rain!”
Settling back into the plush cushions, Horice doffed the hood of his cloak and propped his sheathed rapier against his knee. It seemed an extravagant weapon for an assassin, with an ornate silver basket-hilt and jewel-encrusted pommel, and was useless in the confined quarters of the carriage, but the blade never left Horice’s side. Rumor was it was enchanted, but Sereth didn’t know what its magic did, and Horice never volunteered the information. So be it; he’d take his sturdy short sword and slender daggers any day.
Sereth thumped the roof, and the carriage lurched into motion. He leaned back, rested one hand on a dagger hilt and the other on the latch to the carriage’s door, tired, but attentive.
Horice shifted in his seat again, drawing his attention. The master often complained about the weather causing his bones to ache. Apparently, even the best swordsman in Twailin was not immune to the effects of age. Sereth didn’t like Horice much, and didn’t care for his assignment as the man’s bodyguard, but the position had advantages, not having to fight in the inter-faction squabbles, fend off Thieves Guild advances into their territory, or serve a maniac like the Grandfather chief among them.
But there are disadvantages as well, he reminded himself. His position had attracted the attention of others, and Sereth was paying for it every day of his life. Even worse, he wasn’t the only one paying for it.
The creak of an iron gate and the hail of guards snapped him out of his gloom; they had arrived at Horice’s estate. The carriage lurched to a stop before the gaping double doors. A valet waited with a towel draped over one arm, a silver tray topped with a crystal tumbler and decanter in his other hand.
“Won’t need you ’til morning, Sereth.” Horice waited for Sereth to open the door and jump out before following and hurrying up the steps. As he toweled dry, he called back, “Good work today. Go home and get dry.”
“Thank you, Master.” Sereth strode across the courtyard and through the gates, nodding to the guards as he passed. He had much to do, and this weather was good for more than killing. With the aid of the rain, he could easily pass through the city without being noticed, and he had a long way to go—and another master to serve—before he could go to his own cold, empty home.
Chapter II
Garrote weather.” Mya stepped out into the rain without even raising the hood of her cloak.
Lad followed without pause. He didn’t wear a cloak. His old master’s lesson rang in his mind: Garments that impede movement hinder your abilities. Remember! Discomfort was transient; a dagger in the heart was permanent.
Together, they walked through the rain. Mya didn’t like carriages, preferring to walk regardless of the weather. He agreed with her; carriages were noisy, confining and slow, hindering both perception and mobility. May as well climb into a coffin, have it nailed shut, and be loaded onto a hearse. He scanned the street, the shadows, the surrounding rooftops and the storm grates. The rainy season always made him tense. His eyes penetrated the gloom easily, but the rain interfered with his hearing. Detecting a heartbeat or a knife leaving a sheath was impossible even for him in a downpour like this, and the rain masked the subtle scents of sweat, bad breath and flatulence that might betray a hidden assassin.
“Yes, Mya. Please, stay close. The rain—”
“Interferes with your perceptions. Yes, you’ve said that.” She gave him a sidelong smile. “About a thousand times.”
“Really?” He gave her a blank look. “You counted?”
“No, I didn’t count, Lad.” Mya rolled her eyes. “Sometimes I think that all the magic has damaged your brain
a little.”
Lad quelled a smile. Despite Mya’s quick mind, she still hadn’t caught on to his affectation. His understanding of subtle verbal interplay had vastly matured since his arrival in Twailin, but he found that people tended to underestimate him when they thought him naïve. If your enemy is strong, feign weakness. If your enemy is weak, show your strength. Remember! He would use every advantage he could to protect himself and his family, even in dealing with Mya.
“I hadn’t considered that possibility.” He glanced at her quizzically. “If my brain is damaged, could it be fixed?”
Motion low in the shadows…a rat. They passed the spot and the large rodent skittered away, a smaller rat screeching in its mouth. That was life in Twailin all wrapped up in one simple picture: the biggest rat wins. Despite that, Lad had not lost his love for the city; the teeming mass of humanity—each person struggling to be a just a bit too big for the next rat to eat—stimulated him as much now as it had the first day he walked through the city gate.
“Maybe. Magic can do amazing things, but without knowing what’s wrong, it might be dangerous.” She turned a corner and he scanned the narrow street carefully, every corner, every shadow, every niche. “Fixing a broken bone is one thing, but I don’t know about letting a mage or priest into my head. I mean, what if they fix something that isn’t broken?”
This, too, he understood, but the opportunity was just too juicy to pass up.
“How can you fix something that isn’t broken?”
Mya sighed and rolled her eyes again. “You can’t, Lad. What I meant was, if they go into your mind looking for something to fix, they might end up doing more damage than good. They could change what makes you who you are.”
“Oh! Yes, that wouldn’t be good.” He had no intention of letting anyone into his head. He’d had more than enough magic controlling his thoughts, emotions and actions for a lifetime. “I think I’ll stay like I am.”
Weapon of Blood Page 2
