Lad strode across the courtyard from the inn to the barn, leaving the aromas of blackbrew and oatcakes in his wake. After working out the stiffness in his strained shoulders with some quick morning exercises in the privacy of their room, and a hearty breakfast, he considered the chores ahead of him before he headed off to the Golden Cockerel.
He stepped into the quiet barn and stopped. Something was wrong.
The sun was up, and the entire inn’s staff was awake and working. Tika and Ponce should have been busy with the barn chores, but they were nowhere in sight. Closing his eyes, Lad stretched out his senses: heart beats, shallow steady breathing, the rustle of straw from his right, a creak of rope overhead. Two assailants lay in wait for him. From their positions, he deduced that they would attack as soon as he ventured beyond the first horse stall. He quirked a quick smile, made a discreet noise to announce his presence, and walked into the trap.
Their timing was good.
Tika leapt from the stall to his right, vaulting over the railing to launch a flying kick right at Lad’s head. At the same moment, his twin brother, Ponce, swung down from an overhead rafter, leading with the edge of his foot aimed at Lad’s back. Either attack would have been a telling blow, painful or even incapacitating, but neither fell true.
The real trick for Lad was to deflect or evade the attacks without injuring either of Josie’s nephews. This was getting harder as the two young men progressed in their training. When he started, they had been fourteen-year-old ruffians, no strangers to street fights and brawls, but without any true fighting skills. Now, three years later, they were dangerous.
Lad spun, ducking low under Tika’s kick and blocking Ponce’s lashing foot with his forearm—he’d have a bruise there later. Ponce released the rope he’d used to swing down, slid under his brother’s flying kick, and snapped up into a fighting stance. Tika tucked into a roll and came up ready. Lad stood as if waiting on a street corner, relaxed and casual as they quickly moved to flank him.
“Good morning, Tika. Good morning, Ponce. Did you both sleep well?”
“Wonderfully,” Tika said with a grin.
“Like a baby,” Ponce added, mirroring his brother’s mirth.
“Good.” Lad smiled at their cockiness. The two young men loved to banter almost as much as they loved to fight. They claimed the non-stop quips set their foes off, taunting them into foolish or hasty action. That might be, but it was not a tactic Lad had been taught. He’d been made to kill, not to talk about it. Nevertheless, he indulged them. “I hope you had a good breakfast.”
“Wiggen’s oatcakes were delicious.” Ponce’s bare foot brushed the hay-strewn floor.
“Sublime in flavor, and so fluffy! A delightful meal.” Tika’s feet were nearly silent, but Lad detected a minute shifting in his stance.
“Good. Breakfast is the most important meal of—”
They struck simultaneously, one high, one low. Lad deflected and dodged the flurry of punches, kicks and foot sweeps, holding his ground and concentrating on their form, their mistakes, and their successes. He flexed his abdominal muscles to stave off a blow to his midriff, grasped Tika’s wrist and twisted. The youth flipped into a roll to avoid having his arm wrenched, just as he’d been taught. Ponce lashed out at the opening the move provided. Lad released Tika’s wrist and twisted around the kick, grasping Ponce’s ankle to flip him onto his back. He tapped Ponce on the chest, just hard enough to leave a bruise.
“—the day. You’re dead.”
“I’m dead,” Ponce agreed with a grimace.
“Well, I’m not!” Tika came up from his roll with the shaft of a pitchfork in his hand. He’d obviously removed the tined head earlier and set the shaft aside for easy access. Now he squared off, flourishing the staff in preparation.
“You’ve been practicing, Tika. Good.” Lad squared off with him while Ponce propped himself up on one elbow to watch. “Remember what I said about weapons, and show me what you’ve learned.”
Tika came in with a spinning attack, the hardwood shaft whistling through the air. Lad bent back and let the strike that would have broken his neck pass just beyond his chin. But, as he’d hoped, the staff attack had been a distraction, and Tika’s food lashed out to sweep Lad’s ankle. He let it strike true, but flipped with the impact of the blow and kicked out, striking Tika’s hand on the staff with his other foot. Admirably, the youth did not lose his grip, and continued his spin to attack again, high with the staff and low with his other foot. Lad evaded both, and the flourish ended with the two of them in ready fighting stances.
“Very good! You need to—”
A scant instant before the blow landed, Lad heard Ponce’s whoosh of breath. He twisted, but the kick hit him hard in the back, sending him right into the path of Tika’s staff.
Reflex took over.
Lad’s palm met the staff before it met with his temple, and he brought his foot around to snap the shaft at its midpoint. The broken end spun out of Tika’s hand, and Lad caught it. He flipped both ends, caught them and thrust.
“Stop!”
Tika and Ponce froze, the two broken ends of the staff poised a half-inch from their chests.
“Now you’re both dead. And you broke the rules, Ponce.”
“I’m a zombie,” he said with a grin and a shrug. “Sorry about the kick. I thought you’d block it.”
“A good lesson for us both, then.” Lad stood and took a deep breath. His back hurt where Ponce’s foot had struck, though he didn’t think the rib had cracked. “But please, both of you, pull your strikes, even if you think I’m going to dodge or block. Your training has progressed to the point that your blows could seriously injure or even kill. This is practice, remember. In a real fight, you strike as hard as you can, but here...”
“I’m sorry.” Ponce looked duly abashed.
“Don’t be. Just remember.” He gave Ponce a grin. “And remember that we only use our skills…when?”
“When someone we love is in danger,” they recited, nodding respectfully. “Only strike to defend. Only kill to prevent a death.”
“Good! Now Tika, your staff technique is excellent, and you remembered what I said about weapons.”
“That they often serve better as distractions than weapons? Yes. And it worked!”
“Yes.” Lad flipped the broken ends of the staff and handed them to the twins. “Now, let’s go through the fight one step at a time, slowly, and I’ll tell you how it should have gone.”
A half-hour later, Lad heard Wiggen’s step outside, and turned from watching the twins spar together. She appeared at the barn door, Lissa on her hip.
“Yes, Wiggen?”
“The milking and the egging still need to be done, and the guests are starting to come down, so we’re busy in the kitchen. If my valiant warriors can find the time, we humble innkeepers could use some help.”
The twins immediately backed away from one another under the weight of her stern gaze.
“Yes, ma’am,” they said in perfect unison.
Lad just grinned. “We’re done for now. I’ve got to go soon.” He clapped the two young men on their shoulders. “I’ll muck out the stalls for you.”
“Thanks, Lad!”
The twins dashed out, and Lad looked fondly after them.
“You’re turning them into dangerous weapons, you know.”
The statement caught Lad off guard. Is that what Wiggen thought he was doing? Creating weapons for use against his enemies? Did she think he wanted to wield Tika and Ponce that way?
“No! I’m not!” The denial came out with more vehemence than he intended, and Lissa looked at him with wide, surprised eyes.
“Lad!” Wiggen cuddled Lissa close.
“I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “I thought you meant…something else.” He took a deep, calming breath. He went to her and brushed an errant lock of hair away from her face. “You know why I’m training Tika and Ponce. If anything happens to me, they will—”
“Nothing’s going to happen to you!” Fear edged Wiggen’s tone. He knew she didn’t like this topic, but it was something that had to be said.
“Wiggen, no matter how careful I am, something could happen to me. Anyone can get hit by a carriage. But even so, I can’t be here every day to protect you and the inn. If something should happen while I’m away, Tika and Ponce could be the difference between life and death. You know that.”
“I know.” Her lips tightened, and her hand strayed up to the scar on her cheek. “I know you mean the best for us, but it’s you I worry about—what you do, the people you associate with. It scares me, Lad.”
“A little fear is healthy, Wiggen. You just can’t let it paralyze you. You have to be ready.” He took her hand in his and pressed it to his lips. The morning sun through the barn door glinted off her wedding ring, and he kissed that, too. “That’s why we agreed that training Tika and Ponce would be a good thing. That’s why I taught you how to use a dagger, and showed everyone what to do if there’s trouble. You’re safer now than you’ve ever been.”
“I know.” Wiggen hitched Lissa up on her hip and gave him a smile. “I remember what you told us. I know being prepared is important, and I’m less afraid now than I was before you came. It’s not the fighting I hate, Lad, it’s the necessity for it.”
“That’s something I can’t change, Wiggen.” He brushed Lissa’s hair away from her ear, and the baby smiled and gurgled at him. “I would if I could.”
“I know.” She sighed and smiled. “I’m fine, Lad.”
“Good.” He bent down and kissed her. “Now, I’ve got some horse poop to shovel, so if you’ll go back to the kitchen, I’ll get to work.”
“My brave warrior, shoveler of horse poop.”
“That’s me.”
Lad watched his wife walk across the courtyard. He had long ago memorized everything about her—the sway of her hips, the way the morning light touched her hair—and it still amazed him how his heart leapt whenever he saw her.
Family…
Though he never let Wiggen see, his own fears often pressed at the fragile shell of his calm. They’re safer now, he told himself. But still he feared for them. He had more now than he ever dreamed of, but that also meant he had more to lose.
Chapter VI
You’re sure?” Mya lifted her cup and took her first sip of Paxal’s bracingly strong blackbrew. It woke her more effectively than a slap in the face, even though she’d already been up for more than an hour. She hadn’t gotten much sleep with the night’s activities, but her magic kept exhaustion at bay. She could go days without a full night’s rest if need be.
“Positive, Miss Mya. Dee didn’t leave the inn all night.” Paxal gave her a wry look. “Seems he’s got a thing going with that new Morrgrey barmaid, Moirin. Moirin’s a talker, and Britty got an earful this morning. Evidently, Dee’s quite the lover. I can tell you exactly what she said if you—”
“No, Pax. I believe you. Thanks.” She put down her cup and wiped the dribble of blackbrew from her chin. His comment about Dee and Moirin had caught her off guard. Of course she knew that people had relationships, but it wasn’t something discussed amongst colleagues, at least, not in her presence. But skinny, pale Dee with curvy, olive-skinned Moirin, a woman who made more in tips by flaunting her cleavage than she earned as salary? Mya tried to imagine the two of them together, then twitched her head in quick negation. It didn’t matter. What people did with their own time wasn’t her business. “I’ll see you this evening.”
“Very good, Miss Mya.” The barkeep nodded and left the room.
Mya concentrated on her breakfast and thanked the gods that Paxal had discovered only Dee’s little fling. She liked her assistant, and would hate to have to kill him. She’d do it if she had to, of course—quick and clean, just like last night—but she’d hate it all the same.
There was, however, the Grandmaster’s letter to worry about. She considered her reply. “No, thank you,” didn’t seem adequate to express her feelings, and, “You can take your guildmaster’s ring and stick it up your arse,” might be too strong. But she had time. A messenger to Tsing took two weeks in good weather, longer with the spring rains. He couldn’t expect a response before then.
Pushing that task to the back of her mind, she sipped blackbrew and took another bite of fried potatoes. Horice tried to kill me last night. That’s what I’ve got that to deal with today.
A few minutes later, a knock sounded at the door, and Dee walked into the room carrying his papers and writing utensils.
“Good morning, Miss Mya.”
Though he seemed as calm and relaxed as ever, Mya noted dark circles under his eyes and a slightly unsteady gait. A hint of flowery feminine perfume and a distinctive, musky odor wafted in with the breeze of the closing door, corroborating Paxal’s report. She cocked her head, considering her assistant in a new light, until Lad’s words from the previous evening—“Surely you’ve looked at men and thought…”—snapped her from her musing.
This is Dee, godsdamnit! Stop thinking about him that way!
“Morning, Dee.” Her cup rattled into the saucer as he sat down and arranged the correspondence to sign. “Late night? You look tired.” She continued eating, but watched his face, wondering if he knew that Moirin gossiped about him.
“No later than usual, Miss. There were only the five letters.”
Not a hint of evasion or unease. Either he doesn’t know his own reputation, or he doesn’t know I know it. She watched his long, graceful fingers arrange the letters, inkwell and pen for her, and imagined them against Moirin’s olive skin. Focus, Mya!
She speared her last bite of sausage, mopped up the dregs of egg with it and popped it into her mouth. She chased the last bite down with a sip of blackbrew and said, “Good. Let’s get started then.”
He slid the first letter across the table to her. “This is to Journeyman Keese.”
Mya breathed in the flowery scent. Got to be Moirin’s. She took up the pen and signed the letter.
“Next we’ve got the one for the master of the Teamsters Guild.”
“Riley O’Lance. Right.” She read the letter, noting his elegant hand and the cordial embellishments he’d added. “Perfect. Very good, Dee.” She signed it and passed it back.
“Thank you.” He gave her the next. “And the issue with the missing dues from the Westmarket brothels.”
“Yes.” This one was much more strongly worded, the hand firmer, the language plain and straightforward. “Excellent.” She signed.
“And the moneylender on Serpent Avenue.” He took the signed letter and handed her the next.
“Of course.” She read, and tapped the text with a finger. “This phrase here, Dee. Do you think it sounds too soft?”
He stood and rounded the table, leaning over her shoulder to look at the phrase in question.
His proximity set Mya’s nerves tingling, as if her tattoos writhed along her skin. She shifted in her chair, suddenly uncomfortable.
“I think it’s adequate. Anything stronger might be misconstrued, and the Moneylenders Guild has strong connections with the Thieves Guild.”
“Right you are.” She breathed deep, and the tingling along her nerves coalesced into a warm quiver in the pit of her stomach. Oh, stop it, Mya! She signed the letter. “And the last one?”
“Here.” He leaned across the table and grabbed the final letter, the one to Jayse. “The issue with that gang in the Sprawls bothering our friend.”
“Right.” She barely glanced at the letter before signing it. “Very good, Dee. Thank you.”
“My pleasure, Miss Mya.” He stepped back around the table and collected his things. “Anything else this morning?”
Best deal with this now. “Nothing to do with business, but I’d like to suggest something.”
“Yes?” He stood there, attentive and open.
Mya gave him a canted smile. “Ask Moirin to wear a little less perfume when she visits you, and fr
eshen up a bit before you bring the letters in.”
“I…” His face flushed crimson. “I will, Miss Mya. My apologies.”
A thrill of satisfaction banished the distracting tingles from her stomach. “Don’t apologize, Dee.” She stood and tugged her shirt straight. “No harm in taking what pleasure life offers you. Gods know it’s a rare commodity in our business. But be careful. Relationships can be dangerous for people like us.”
“I will be. Thank you, Miss Mya.” He turned to go.
“And get some sleep.”
“I will.”
“Alone.”
He blushed again, but could not suppress a grin. “Yes, Miss Mya.”
The door closed, and she sat back down to pour herself one more cup of blackbrew. She worked the taut muscles of her neck and sighed. Lad would be there shortly, and they had a full day planned. She thought about Dee, happy for him, and glad that she hadn’t needed to put a dagger in his skull. Her thoughtful smile faded, however, as she remembered her last instruction.
“Alone…”
“Good morning, sir.”
Hensen’s eyes flicked up from the steaming scone he was buttering as his assistant entered the morning room. The morning sunshine lit up the woman’s flaxen hair and porcelain features. A rare beauty, he thought before returning his attention to the scone. Her skills were as impressive as her beauty, of course, but Hensen loved to surround himself with pretty things. The elegant décor of his home, lavish furnishings, immaculate clothes, and beautiful assistant reflected that. As the head of the Thieves Guild, he could afford to indulge himself.
“Good morning, Kiesha.” He scooped a lump of marmalade from a tiny crystal bowl with a silver spoon and spread it on his scone. “What news this morning?”
“A visit from Sereth last night, sir. More stirring in the Assassins Guild.”
That perked his interest. They had worked long and hard to pressure the Master Blade’s bodyguard into becoming their informant, and it had paid off handsomely. Hensen knew what the Blade faction would do before they did it, and received indirect news about the other masters’ activities as well. Of all the fingers the Thieves Guild had stuck in pies throughout the city, Sereth was, by far, his most valuable spy at the moment.
Weapon of Blood Page 7
