Weapon of Blood

by Chris A. Jackson

  Lad flipped up to sit on the peak of the roof with his back to the street, reached into the pack of tools, withdrew a wide-bladed chisel, and put it between his teeth. Positioning his fingers at the roof edge, he extended his legs out straight in front of him, and pressed himself up until only his fingertips and his heels touched the roof. Slowly, he moved his body out over the void, leaning in to keep his center of balance over his hands, his heels dragging along the roof until the backs of his knees were just above the edge of the roof. With one slow, steadying breath, he let himself fall.

  His calves slapped hard against the roof, and his upper body swung down into empty space. His legs slid outward an inch, then his swing pulled him back toward the face of the townhouse and the grating. At the peak of his swing, Lad arched his back and reached backward to grasp the louvers of the grating. The wood creaked, but did not break.

  Glancing down, he checked the Hunters, but neither had moved. Lad got to work.

  As he’d hoped, the grate was decorative rather than secure, nothing but a thin wooden frame nailed to a stout timber casing. Thrusting the chisel into the tiny gap between the frame and the casing, he pried the grate away. A nail squeaked as it moved in its wooden sheath.

  Slowly. Patience. Haste is your enemy. Remember!

  Bit by bit, Lad loosened the louvered grate, pausing periodically to check the two watchers. Eventually, the grate came loose, and he swung free, hanging by his knees from the roof. Lad put the chisel between his teeth, and swung himself back to grasp the edge of the aperture. He craned his neck to peer into the space within. A dusty, dirty attic greeted him.

  Perfect.

  Making sure he had a good grip, he let go with his legs, swinging down and absorbing the impact against the side of the building on the balls of his feet. He pulled himself up, placed the grating inside, and slipped through.

  The attic was a vast, empty space with only a framework of joists supporting the lath and plaster ceiling below. To Lad’s right, he spied a trapdoor with a built-in folding ladder that would extend when the door was lowered. It was rigged with a counterweight so it could be easily closed from below.

  Effortlessly balancing his way across the joists, Lad dropped flat and pressed his ear to the trapdoor. He heard nothing, but lack of sound didn’t mean that someone wasn’t there. He knew that trapdoors like this one generally opened into closets or hallways, so this one probably wouldn’t open right over Captain Norwood’s bed.

  That would be a problem, he thought, envisioning himself hopping down to land right on top of the captain.

  After securing the ladder to the hatch so it wouldn’t noisily extend, he pushed down gently on the door. When nothing happened, he pushed harder. Still nothing. It was either stuck, or there was a latch or bolt on the other side.

  Patience… Haste is your enemy.

  Lad pulled a razor-thin blade from his tool pouch and slipped it in the crack between the door and the frame. As he worked it around the edge, it met with something metal in the middle, opposite the hinged end. A latch or bolt, surely. Picking a heavier blade, and working slowly to avoid noise, he cut away a four-inch section of the narrow wooden laths adjacent to latched end of the trapdoor. When the last of the wood came free, he went to work on the plaster, chipping away tiny bits at a time. Finally, the blade slipped all the way through, and he worked it around a square large enough to fit his hand. When he’d cut three sides of a square, he pried it up and lifted out the painted plaster in a single piece. Only a few tiny bits of dust and broken plaster fell into the darkness below.

  Silence and darkness met his questing senses.

  Good.

  Reaching through, he eased open the simple barrel bolt, and pushed on the trapdoor with his other hand. It swung open into a large broom closet.

  Lucky, lucky Lad. He smiled and dropped down, landing like a feather. Here, he stopped once again to listen.

  A faint snort reached his ears. Someone was snoring.

  Easing open the closet door, he peered straight down a dimly lit hallway. There was a door to his left, and one straight ahead, both rooms presumably overlooking the front of the house. Immediately to his right, a switchback staircase descended to the second floor. Another hallway ran alongside the stairway banister toward the back of the house, ending at a door. The snoring came from the door immediately to his left.

  Perfect.

  Lad tried the latch and smiled. It was unlocked. Predicting the cadence of snoring, he chose his moment and slipped into the room.

  Well, damn!

  The room extended across the front of the house far enough to encompass two of the bay windows. An ornate wardrobe dominated one wall, flanked by a full-length mirror and a vanity table. The cloying scent of perfume and talc hung heavily in the air. Unfortunately, only one person slept in the expansive four-post bed, and unless Captain Norwood was an obese, middle-aged woman—which didn’t match Wiggen’s description at all—this wasn’t him. Disappointed, Lad slipped out and down the hall to listen at the other door. Nothing. He tried the latch, also unlocked, and slipped inside. The high canopy bed was empty.

  Patience. One room left on this floor.

  Lad didn’t relish having to venture deeper into the house and farther from his escape route if this one proved empty. Creeping down the hall toward the back of the house, he put his ear against the door and listened.

  A foot scuffed the floor just on the other side of the door. Heat surged through him as he heard a click, and the latch began to turn. He glanced over his shoulder; it was thirty feet to the broom closet—too far—and if he leapt the bannister onto the stairs, he ran the risk of making noise. He had nowhere to go.

  Moving objects draw more attention than still ones. Remember!

  Lad backed into the corner and froze.

  The door swung into the room, and a man of perhaps fifty years with the build of a soldier gone somewhat soft stepped out, stifling a yawn. Aside from the nightclothes, he fit Wiggen’s description to a tee. Captain Norwood took two steps, then stopped, tensed and started to turn toward Lad.

  A lifetime of training kicked in.

  Lad lunged out of his corner, passing behind Norwood, bounded off the opposite wall, and snaked an arm around the captain’s neck faster than a single stroke of a bird’s wing. A gasp was the only sound that escaped the man’s lips before Lad tightened his hold and whispered into his ear.

  “Silence, Captain! I didn’t come here to kill you, but I can break your neck in an instant if you cry out.” Norwood’s body trembled, but to his credit, the captain didn’t panic, struggle, or cry out.

  “Good. Now, nod if you were alone in that room, and don’t lie to me.” Norwood’s chin bobbed against his arm. “Excellent. Let’s go in where we can talk undisturbed.”

  Lad urged the captain back into the room with gentle but inexorable pressure. Once they were inside the arc of the door, he closed it deftly with his foot. He looked around. The room spanned the entire width of the townhouse. Beyond the open drapes, the tops of the courtyard trees swayed in the night breeze. Mya’s Hunter stood silently on the roof across the courtyard, invisible in the darkness to any eyes but Lad’s. Thankfully, Norwood hadn’t lit a lamp. The rumpled bed nearby was empty. A dagger lay on the nightstand, and a sheathed sword stood propped in the corner. Lad steered Norwood toward a sitting area at the opposite end of the room.

  “All right, Captain, I’m going to release you.” He felt the man tense in his grasp, and applied just enough pressure to the back of his skull to get his point across. “If you try to reach a weapon, I’ll be forced to hurt you. I came here for information, not blood, but I’m more than a match for you. Trust me on that. If you agree to talk with me, I’ll let you go. Nod if you agree.”

  The captain’s chin wiggled up and down. Slowly, Lad released the pressure of his grip, then backed quickly into the dark corner before Norwood could turn around.

  “Have a seat, Captain.”

  Norwood took a
deep breath and rubbed his throat before he turned to glare into the shadows. “Do you mind if I stand? I think you scared the shit out of me.” The man’s voice had an acerbic edge, but his fear was controlled. Lad admired the captain’s cool head.

  “Stand if you like, Captain.” More flies with honey than with vinegar, he thought, employing a tactic he’d learned from watching Mya. “I apologize for startling you, but I can’t let you get a good look at my face. You have a reputation for taking your job seriously, and I know that, if you could identify me, you’d never stop searching.”

  “Who the hells are you?”

  “You don’t get to ask the questions, Captain. I came here to ask you about a murder you’re investigating. A wizard named Vonlith. Tell me how he died.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I told you, I ask the questions, but if you must know, I’m with the Assassins Guild.” Norwood’s throat flexed as he swallowed, and his jaw muscles clenched briefly. Fear. Good. “It’s come to our attention that you’ve linked Vonlith with Saliez, which makes this killing of interest to us.”

  Norwood’s eyes narrowed. “How did you know that? It’s not public knowledge.”

  Lad cringed. He couldn’t afford to let Norwood make a connection to his conversation with Wiggen. He covered the mistake with a dry laugh. “We have eyes and ears throughout the city, Captain, even north of the river. You’d be surprised at what we know. What we don’t know is how Vonlith died. Now tell me how he was killed.”

  “Fine.” Norwood hesitated, as if considering how much information to give. “He was murdered in his study. We found him sitting in a high-backed leather chair with a stiletto wound to the back of the skull, right into the brain. Nothing was disturbed and, as far as we can tell, nothing was taken.” Norwood gave him a snort of laughter. “Frankly, if you’re with the Assassins Guild, I thought you’d know all this. It looked like a professional killing.”

  Lad’s mind spun. Pithing was a difficult maneuver, really only feasible if you were standing right behind an unsuspecting target. It made sense that Norwood suspected a professional, and to Lad, that also meant a member of the Assassins Guild. Who besides him had the skill to pull this off, and why? He turned his attention back to Norwood.

  “If I knew, I wouldn’t be here, would I? What else?”

  Norwood continued, though he sounded reluctant. “The entire residence was protected by magical locks and wards, but not a single one was broken or tripped. However, the servant’s door was unlocked, and it looked as if Vonlith had been entertaining someone just prior to his death. There was a glass of brandy at his elbow, and another, recently emptied, on the sideboard. We presumed that someone was the killer, and that Vonlith had let him in.”

  A chill ran up Lad’s spine. How many people had Vonlith known in the Assassins Guild? And who would he let into his home? Lad had no way to be sure, but knew that it had to be a short list. “That’s useful, Captain. Thank you. How did you link Vonlith with Saliez?”

  “I’m through answering questions without getting any answers,” Norwood said, startling Lad with his brazenness. “But I’ll make you a deal. I’ll help you if you help me.”

  “I’m not here to solve your murder for you, Captain.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted you to. I’ve got more interests in this city than one murder.”

  Lad paused for a moment, wondering if this was some ploy to put him at ease or catch him off guard. “I can’t promise you anything, Captain, but I’ll give you what I can. Now answer me, how did you link Vonlith with Saliez?”

  “A wizard’s wagon was spotted at Saliez’s mansion before the raid five years ago, but it was gone by the time we arrived. After Vonlith’s murder, someone recognized it in his stable.”

  “Do you have any suspects?”

  Norwood laughed sharply, without humor. “Not anymore. We assumed it was someone in the Assassins Guild, but if you really don’t know about this killing, I guess we need to rethink that assumption.”

  “I only deal with a single guild faction, Captain. Someone in one of the other factions might have had a reason to kill Vonlith, or taken a contract to do the job.”

  “There’s more than one faction of assassins? Wonderful!” Norwood tossed his head irritably. “Then you have no idea who killed him?”

  “Not yet. What else do you know about Vonlith and Saliez?”

  “We’re pretty sure that Vonlith did some type of work for Saliez. He was a runemage, and we found runes tattooed all over Saliez’s body, so we thought maybe Vonlith was the one who did the tattooing. He also had a contract that ended without being completed right after Saliez was found dead.” Even in the darkness Lad could see the muscles of Norwood’s jaw clench. “My turn to ask a question.”

  Lad didn’t like the idea of answering Norwood’s questions, but he had agreed. “What do you want to know?”

  “Do you know what Vonlith was doing for Saliez?”

  “Yes, Captain.” Lad chose his words carefully. “It had to do with a young man who was controlled by magic. You undoubtedly remember the assassinations of nobles some five years ago.”

  “I remember them. We were told about the boy, but frankly, I never really believed he existed. I was told he was killed.”

  “You were told the truth, Captain. Something happened to the magic controlling the boy, and Vonlith was contracted to renew it. The boy broke free during the process, and he and Saliez killed each other.”

  “We never found the boy’s body.” There was suspicion in Norwood’s voice now, but Lad had expected this question, and had an answer ready.

  “That’s because there was no body to find. There were…fail-safe spells woven into the magic that had been placed on the boy. It may interest you to know that it took more than fifteen years to create that creature. He was more magic than flesh, really. The spells were designed to utterly destroy the evidence if he was killed while performing a mission. When he died, the body was completely consumed by the magic.”

  “You sound like you were there when it happened.” The grudging acknowledgement in Norwood’s voice suggested that he believed that Lad was dead.

  Good.

  “I was, Captain. Now, my turn again. What else have you found out about Vonlith?”

  “Not much, really. Vonlith has had only one contract since Saliez’s death. It began about a month after, and lasted until a month ago. It was lucrative enough to keep him in a very expensive lifestyle without taking any other contracts. It’s more likely that his death is related to this recent contract than any work he did for Saliez, but we aren’t ruling out either. Then again, it could be something else entirely. We just don’t know.”

  Lad considered the information. Unfortunately, it provided no clue to the identity of Vonlith’s killer. He agreed with the reasoning, but who would contract a runemage for five years and then kill him when the contract was done?

  Suddenly he felt as if he’d been dipped in ice water. Someone interested in making a weapon…a weapon like me. And they killed him to make sure no more were made, or that the one he’d just finished was kept a secret. Lad had no idea how many in the Assassins Guild knew how he had been made. The Master Hunter, Targus, had known, but Lad had killed the man. Did the other masters know? In fact, Mya had led a wide-ranging manhunt for Lad, enlisting dozens in the search. Did they all know? His mind whirled at the prospect.

  “Does that give you any ideas?”

  Lad snapped from his thoughts back to Norwood. “I’m afraid, Captain, that the list of suspects could be very long.”

  “Then it’s my turn again.” Norwood shifted his stance, and his line of questions. “Why are so many people dying south of the river?”

  “There’s some squabbling going on within the Assassins Guild. The guild has no guildmaster, and the factions are vying for supremacy. Our…competition is trying to move in with the disruption, which has added to the violence.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d name the
leaders of these factions so I can stop the violence.”

  “Sorry, Captain. The violence will stop only when the factions learn to cooperate, or they appoint a new guildmaster. It’s that simple. Now, I have to go.”

  “Wait!” Norwood held up a stalling hand. “Can I ask you one more thing?”

  Lad saw no reason to deny the request. “You can ask, but I may not answer.”

  “How in the Nine Hells did you get in here? I have the best locks money can buy on all my doors and windows, and a guard dog on the back porch.”

  Lad smiled, though he knew Norwood couldn’t see his face. “I came through the attic, Captain. No place is impregnable to a sufficiently skilled and determined…”—assassin. Remember! The words of his trainers were always with him, burned into his mind, but that wasn’t something Norwood needed to know—“…person, Captain. And that’s one thing that worries me about Vonlith’s death. Whoever put a dagger in his brain was very skilled indeed.”

  “As skilled as you?”

  “No one’s as skilled as me,” he said without a hint of hubris. “That’s what worries me. Now turn around please.”

  Norwood obeyed, turning slowly, and Lad saw him tense.

  “Sleep well, Captain.” Lad took careful hold of Norwood’s neck, pressing his fingers down on the arteries that supplied blood to the brain. The captain had only enough time to reach up and grab Lad’s wrists before he went suddenly and completely limp. The unconsciousness would only last a few seconds, but it wouldn’t hurt him, and gave Lad enough time to slip through the door, down the hall, and out the attic window. Though the conversation had been enlightening, he still had too many questions and too few answers. But he knew where to look next.

  Mya…

  Chapter XII

  Thanks for cleaning things up, Pax.” Mya flashed the innkeeper a smile as she sat down to her breakfast. She’d come home the previous evening to find her quarters completely straightened up; fresh, crisp linens covered the bed, her robe had been washed and hung up, and every shard of broken glass had been removed from the sparring room. She felt guilty when she considered all the time and effort Paxal must have put into cleaning up the mess. Who knew what he thought—bloody glass and all—but she trusted him never to mention it to anyone. “I’m afraid things got a little…out of hand the other night.”