Weapon of Blood

by Chris A. Jackson

  “Hi.” Wiggen’s voice soothed him like a sweet balm, the mere sight of her an elixir that washed away his troubles.

  “Hi.” He ran the back of his fingers down her cheek, then reached down to brush a lock of hair from Lissa’s brow. The babe, just less than a year old, barely stirred, so focused was she upon her late-night meal. His rumbling stomach reminded him of his own hunger, and he sat to eat.

  “Busy night?”

  “Yes.” Lad held no secrets from Wiggen. “Another attack on Mya—unsuccessful, of course.”

  “Mmmm. Did you…”

  “No,” he answered, hearing the worry in her tone and knowing exactly what she was asking. “I didn’t kill anyone, but Mya did. Two of them jumped her, and she did it before I could stop her.” He shook his head in frustration.

  “It’s not your fault, Lad. You can’t control her.”

  Lissa stopped suckling and started squirming, flailing her tiny hands through the air. Wiggen expertly shifted the baby up to her shoulder and began to pat her back, but she looked up at Lad with concerned eyes. “She scares me. I wish you would just quit and come work for father.”

  “Mya is a problem, but I gave her my word. Besides, you didn’t marry the poor stableboy that Forbish took in, but the dedicated assistant to a successful businesswoman.” Maintaining that false identity helped keep him safe from the Royal Guard. Though he doubted they still actively hunted him, they would never forget the lives he’d taken while under the Grandfather’s control.

  A resounding burp from Lissa drew his attention from his troubling thoughts, and a smile from his lips.

  “Somebody’s full.”

  “And ready for bed.” Wiggen stood, then bent to give him another kiss. “Come in soon, Lad.”

  “I will.” Watching her vanish down the hall to their rooms, he could hear her murmuring softly as she put the babe to her crib. Their own bed creaked as Wiggen laid herself to rest.

  Lad resumed his dinner, leaning into the warmth of the hearth and listening to the ebb and flow of the world around him. The rain on the roof, the creaks and groans of the inn’s timbers, the snores of sleeping guests, the stomp of a hoof from the barn across the courtyard. He loved this place, these people, the comfortable feeling of home. Only here did his worries melt away. Here he could be the man—father, lover, husband, friend—that he longed to be. Here he could be something other than a weapon. He knew that the sanctuary was temporary, that in the morning he would have to leave this safe haven and become the weapon once again.

  But that’s tomorrow.

  His plate clean and his tankard empty, Lad took the dishes to the kitchen and put them in the wash barrel, then went to the room he shared with his family. A bare glow seeped from the lamp, but it was more than enough light for him to see. He bent over the crib where Lissa slept, and stroked a finger lightly over her pudgy pink cheek. He vowed silently to keep her from all harm, to give her the love and life that he had never known as a child.

  Wiggen lay in their bed, the blankets tracing the smooth curve of her hip, her hair loose on the pillow. By her breathing, he knew she wasn’t asleep yet, so he doffed the robe and slipped in beside her, pulling her close. She edged back into his embrace and sighed in sleepy contentment. Lad breathed in the scent of her hair, felt her heartbeat against his chest.

  Wiggen…

  With fingertips as light as feathers, he caressed her shoulder, tenderly kissing the back of her neck.

  “Mmmm…that’s nice, but I’m too tired tonight, Lad.” She sighed and pulled away, just a tiny bit, but enough to get her point across. “Can’t we just sleep?”

  “Of course.” After one more kiss, he ceased his amorous attentions and rolled onto his back. Since the baby, her interest in lovemaking had waned. He understood that, between her work at the inn and tending to Lissa, she didn’t get much rest, and she had assured him that it was only temporary. Lad was content to wait. He missed their love-making, but knew there was more to love than sex. Closing his eyes, he meditated to calm his mind and aid his descent into sleep. It didn’t work as well as making love to Wiggen, but it did work, and soon his thoughts settled into peace, on the verge of oblivion.

  Just before sleep overtook him, a memory surfaced, his words to Mya earlier in the evening: Don’t you ever look at men and wonder…

  Why did I say that? Why would I care if Mya wonders about that?

  Chapter V

  Damnedest thing I ever seen, Captain.” Sergeant Tamir stared down at the corpse with a look of stern puzzlement. “Can’t figure out how he done it.”

  Captain Norwood joined his sergeant beside the thickly upholstered armchair and squinted down at the dead man. The corpse sat upright, a look of mild startlement on its face. A multi-hued ray of light shone upon the dead face, painting the pale features with bizarre rainbow colors. Norwood glanced up at the window in irritation, thinking to order Tamir to pull the shade, but there was no shade to pull. The mosaic of crystals set in the window’s panes showered the room with wondrous colors, but Norwood was in no mood to enjoy the beauty. The window probably cost more than the captain earned in a month, and Norwood had been roused out of his home before he’d even eaten breakfast, all so he could come look at a dead rich man.

  The rest of the room reflected the victim’s affluent taste just as brilliantly as the window. The dark oak desk and its matching end tables and bookshelves, cunningly carved with abstract shapes and patterns, set with handles, latches and bookends of gleaming gold, ivory, silver and jade, were all obviously worth a fortune. In one corner stood a full-length oval mirror framed in silver, the gleaming metal decorated with spidery tracings that gave Norwood a headache when he tried to focus on them. The entire townhouse bespoke wealth. Wealth and magic.

  The owner, however, would not be enjoying his wealth any longer.

  The corpse’s hands still gripped the arms of the chair, his eyes wide and fixed upon a spot straight across the low table at the matching chair, as if he’d been carrying on a conversation with someone seated there when he suddenly died. His legs were crossed, and a snifter of brandy sat on an end table at his elbow. In fact, the only clues that he was not still alive and paying close attention to that conversation were a slight fecal odor and a bloody stain on the collar of his expensive silk robe.

  “It’s a puzzle all right.”

  Norwood scanned the opulently appointed study for any clues to that puzzle, but his practiced eye found nothing obviously out of place. In fact, the room was immaculately tidy. According to Sergeant Tamir, the entire townhouse mirrored that condition, with nothing to indicate the master of the house sat dead in his study. Kneeling, the captain lifted the embroidered hem of the corpse’s robe and peered beneath. The fecal odor wafted out stronger, and a broad stain marred the back of his nightshirt behind his crossed legs.

  “Well, he died right here. Shat himself right in this chair.” Norwood stood and glared down at the corpse again. “What did you say his name was?”

  “Vonlith, sir.” Tamir consulted his evidence log. “Housekeeper found him up here when he didn’t come down for his breakfast. She went completely hysterical. Ran right out into the street screaming ‘Murder’ at the top of her lungs.”

  “Wonderful. Rumors will be flying all over Hightown by mid-morning.”

  “No doubt, sir. Anyway, she came in early this morning and made everything up just like she always did. She said he was a stickler for details, always wanted things just so. Part of bein’ a wizard, I guess.”

  “Hmph. I guess wizarding pays well. This place is nicer than many of the nobles’ homes I’ve been in.” As Captain of the Royal Guard, Norwood had considerable experience with nobility. He was less familiar with the habits of wizards, even though the Wizards Guild and many of its members resided in his jurisdiction, north of the river. To his mind, practitioners of magic tended to be quirky, arrogant, and more than a little annoying. “What other servants did he have?”

  “Only a sta
blehand.” Tamir flipped a page in his book. “But he just takes care of the outside of the house. Doesn’t even have a key.”

  “Vonlith didn’t employ any guards? Wealth like this attracts thieves like honey draws flies.”

  “None, sir, but I don’t know many thieves foolish enough to rob a wizard’s home. They’re generally jealous of their privacy, and tend to have nasty magical doodahs to keep out the riffraff.”

  “Good point.” He peered around the room again, wondering how much of what he saw was magical. The mirror, certainly. Hells, the carpet under his boots could be magical for all Norwood knew. “We better wait for Master Woefler to arrive before we poke into anything.”

  “Woefler’s coming?” Tamir made a sour face. “That skinny git makes my teeth ache, sir.”

  “He might be a skinny git, but I’d rather have him burned to ashes by a wizard’s trap than any of my guardsmen. Even you, Sergeant.”

  “Thanks, sir.”

  “We can, however, have a casual look around.”

  “Already done that, sir.”

  “Good. No windows or doors were broken or forced?”

  “None that we’ve seen so far.” Tamir gave a stiff shrug. “A few doors are locked, and I thought it best if we not go kicking any in.”

  Norwood bent closer to the corpse again, and placed his palm on the forehead. The flesh was cool; some hours had passed since death. He lifted one hand from the armrest, having to pull the rigid fingers away from the leather. The arm moved with some resistance. The flesh was stiff, but not as unyielding as it would eventually become. The eyes were hazed and dry, but clear of blood. He opened the mouth with gentle pressure on the tip of the wizard’s bearded chin, wary of what might issue forth. He’d seen some strange deaths in his time, and sometimes corpses didn’t stay dead. There was no blood, and the man’s tongue was not discolored or bloated.

  “Rigor hasn’t set in all the way yet. Maybe eight hours. No sign of blunt trauma to the skull.” He looked at the back of the chair. “And no sign that something pierced him through the back of the chair, either.”

  Tamir’s pencil scratched along the page of his log. “Got it.”

  “Also, note that there’s no splash or spatter marks around the victim’s head. His hair’s mussed up, and he’s wearing night clothes, like he might have gone to bed and then woken up to come down here.” Norwood felt along the sides of the corpse’s skull, but found nothing amiss. Finally, he gripped the man’s hair and pulled his head forward. A wash of crimson painted the back of the dead wizard’s neck. It had soaked his collar and wicked around both sides, but most of the blood had gone right down the back of his nightshirt.

  “Not a lot of blood.” He gingerly probed the back of the dead man’s head with his fingers, ignoring the cool, congealed mess. “No sign of a busted skull but…” His fingertip found a small slit at the base of the skull. “Hmm. Yes. A stiletto or poniard, I think.”

  “Someone pithed him? Why go to that trouble?”

  Norwood shrugged. A blade to the back of the skull was a tricky way to kill someone. The point of entry was small enough to require a narrow blade or pick. Without perfect precision, the strike would hit bone. Also, few people would sit still long enough to allow a killer such precision. It would be much easier and surer to cut the throat.

  “I have no idea.” Norwood tipped the wizard’s head back against the chair and wiped his hand on his handkerchief. Too late, he realized that it was brand new, an impromptu gift from his wife. He’d catch hell from her for using it in such a manner. Maybe he’d just throw it away and claim he lost it. “It’s a difficult kill, but it’s tidy.”

  “So, the assassin piths him right here in this chair, then slips the dagger out and leans him back, just so he won’t make a mess?” Tamir scratched notes in his log.

  “Assassin?” Norwood gave his sergeant a curious look. “Why call him that?”

  “Come on, sir. This has got ‘professional hit’ written all over it.” He gestured around the room with the end of his pencil. “No sign of forced entry. No blood spatter or signs that the killer got all bloody doing the deed. All kinds of expensive knickknacks lying around, so he wasn’t here to steal stuff. No mess, no fuss. He didn’t even spill the man’s brandy!” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Someone’s really proud of their skills here.”

  “Hmph.” Norwood didn’t like the idea of assassins or professional killings, preferring straight-forward crimes of passion, robbery, or revenge. Those were easier to solve. But Tamir was right; this looked far too neat to be any of those. “Well, we know how, so let’s try to figure out who and why, shall we?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We can assume he died right here. That means whoever did it stood beside or behind the chair when he put a blade in the wizard’s skull.” Norwood circled the chair, but the expensive western rugs gave no indication of where the killer might have stood while performing the deed. “The man was sipping a brandy, and he didn’t have a book or anything, so maybe he was having a chat with the killer.”

  “So, it could have been someone he knew. Someone he’d let into his house for a late-night drink and conversation.” Tamir picked up the snifter and passed it under his nose. “Doesn’t smell bad, but if the killer slipped him something, it would have made the pithing a lot easier.”

  “That’s true.” Norwood hadn’t thought about poison. Tamir had a good mind for things like this. “Make sure we have a sample of that. Maybe we can figure out if it was doped. And check the other snifters. Our killer may have used one.”

  “Sure, sir.” Tamir put the snifter back down and scratched a note in his book. “Seems like a lot of trouble when cutting his throat or hacking his head off with a sword would have been easier.”

  “But messier and not as elegant.” Norwood pursed his lips. He couldn’t remember a single killing so bereft of evidence.

  “Elegant?” Tamir scratched something in his log, then looked up at his captain. “You think this was elegant?”

  “Well, maybe that’s the wrong word, but I think you were right about one thing. Whoever did this was very proud of their skills. They might have wanted to avoid making a mess to keep from tracking blood all over the place, but a dagger in the eye or the heart would have been easier than one in the back of the head, and just as sure. It’s like someone’s showing off here.”

  “Or sending a message?”

  Messages…daggers…assassinations…

  Norwood shuddered, remembering where he’d seen those three things together before; the worst string of murders Twailin had ever seen. Those killings were nothing like this. The method is the message here. More subtle than a note around the hilt of a dagger thrust through someone’s eye while they slept.

  “I don’t know about a message, but whoever did this did it like this for a reason. Maybe as a signature or personal trademark. Whatever it is, I don’t like it. Once you’re finished here, search the archives for similar methods and circumstances.”

  “Yes, Captain.” Tamir scratched more notes. “Professional, no doubt, but I’ve never heard of a wizard earning a visit from a pro. Can’t even remember the last time a wizard got murdered. They’re dangerous targets, even for a pro. This one’s a puzzle, all right.”

  “That’s why we’re here, Sergeant.”

  “That, and the fact that it happened on our side of the river.” Tamir chuckled. “You know the joke; all the devils of the Nine Hells can rampage south of the river, and they just call the City Guard. But if a rich merchant or noble gets so much as a hangnail north of the river, the Royal Guard will be there with a bandage.”

  Norwood cast a withering glare at Tamir. “I despise that joke, Sergeant.”

  However true it might be, he resented the implication that the privileged classes received greater consideration from the duke’s Royal Guard than the lesser got from the less prestigious City Guard. The river that forked in the center of Twailin split the city into three pieces. Th
e portion north of that split included Hightown, the Bluff District, and the duke’s palace, which sat right on the promontory overlooking the river’s fork. The two southern portions made up the vast majority of the city’s population, but only about a tenth of its wealth.

  “Yes, sir.” Tamir bit his lip and scratched more notes.

  “Wait for Woefler and have a good look around, but if the killer was this careful with the body, I doubt you’ll find much. If Vonlith let him in, that explains why there are no broken or jimmied locks. Tell Woefler to check with the Wizards Guild. I want to know more about Vonlith. I’ll be in my office. You can both give me your initial reports there. Now, find out why this man’s dead.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “And be careful! Wait for Woefler. That’s an order.”

  “Don’t worry, Captain. None of my people are dumb enough to poke into a wizard’s stuff on their own.”

  “Good. He should be here soon.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Norwood left Tamir to his business. He had other things to attend to, one of them his belated breakfast. But as he left Vonlith’s opulent townhouse, he noticed a number of curious neighbors clustered along the street. Lords and ladies with their walking sticks and parasols paused to cast concerned glances and whisper behind their lace handkerchiefs. The rumors were already spreading.