Weapon of Blood

by Chris A. Jackson

  “Mister Sereth, sir.” The butler bowed and ushered the assassin into the room.

  Sereth took two steps and stopped, his eyes fixed upon Kiesha’s backlit form. Hensen watched the muscles in the assassin’s jaw tense as he dropped his eyes and gazed intently at the floor.

  Ahhh, the thief considered, perhaps a bit of discomfort will teach you a little humility, too, my headstrong spy.

  “Come in, Sereth. I’m doing a little decorating, and I’d appreciate your opinion, as you’re such an observant fellow.

  Sereth approached, eyes still averted, and spoke as soon as the door closed. “Something important has come up. The new guildmaster’s ring doesn’t work. The enchantment failed.”

  “Hmm. That must have been embarrassing.” Hensen picked up another swatch, this one a darker blue. This wasn’t the bit of news he’d expected. “Why would a failed enchantment warrant a visit from you at this hour? Aren’t you going to be late for work?”

  “It’s important because it means the original ring was never destroyed. Apparently only one guildmaster’s ring can exist at any given time. The masters think Mya wears it.”

  “That is interesting.” And it explained why Mya had not requisitioned a new ring as she’d been instructed to. He held up the swatch in the light and admired the pattern embroidered with gold thread. Yes, very nice. “But if Mya wears the ring, why hasn’t she claimed the guildmaster position?”

  “The others would never support her claim, which means the Grandmaster would likely step in and have her removed. They think she put it on to protect herself from their assassins.”

  “Which seems to be working.” And makes our job that much easier. Hensen could almost feel the gold they’d receive when the contract was fulfilled. With a happy sigh, he draped the cloth over Kiesha’s shoulder. “Tell me, what do you think of this color? Does it accentuate her eyes well?”

  Sereth’s eyes barely grazed Kiesha before focusing on the pile of fabrics. He pointed to a swatch. “Not as well as the lighter blue. That one.”

  “Hmm.” Hensen picked up the swatch Sereth had indicated. “And what will the masters of your guild do about this conundrum?”

  “They plan to cooperate. They’ve devised a plan to kill Mya’s bodyguard. If it works, they’ll move against her with an outside contractor.”

  Years of controlling his emotions allowed Hensen to maintain an unruffled composure at this news. There goes our easy money! With a surge of pique, he took out his frustration on the only two others in the room. He slipped first one, then the other strap of Kiesha’s chemise off her shoulders. The flimsy garment fell into a pale puddle at her feet, and he lifted the swatch to her bare breasts as if comparing the hues. To her credit, she didn’t move a muscle.

  “Attacking Mya and her bodyguard hasn’t worked very well for them in the past.” He picked up another swatch of darker blue and held them both up, brushing the fabrics—first one, then the other—over her breasts. “Tell me, Sereth, which do you think is Kiesha’s color? Take a good look now. I want your honest opinion.”

  Sereth opened his mouth as if to protest, then snapped it shut and obediently looked up at Kiesha. Swallowing forcefully, he said, “The lighter blue.”

  “I agree.” Hensen dropped the darker swatch, draped the lighter over her shoulder and took a step back to examine her. “So, how do your masters hope to succeed where they have failed before?”

  “They’re trying a new tactic. They spent half the night working up a plan. That’s why I had time to come this morning; Horice won’t be out of bed until noon.”

  Hensen reached up to adjust the cloth, and felt a warm drop on the back of his hand. Tears welled in Kiesha’s eyes. She blinked, and another ran down her cheek, though she hadn’t moved a hair’s breadth. Mollified by the reactions he had provoked in them both, he turned and rummaged through the array of swatches, picking out another, still blue, but not so bright, richer in hue and beautifully accented. “So, how do they plan to do it?”

  “Let me see my wife, and I’ll tell you.”

  Hensen stopped short, dropped the swatch he held, and slowly turned to face the assassin. “Was that an ultimatum, Sereth?”

  “No, that was an offer.” The assassin met his gaze with more steel than he had yet shown. He swallowed again, and a drop of sweat glistened on his brow. “I want to see her.”

  Hensen ran his gaze over the assassin’s clothing, wondering if Terrence had found all of his weapons. He had held Sereth’s wife for three years now, but he kept her as healthy and happy as a captive could be, just as he had promised, and all at his own expense. Now this threat…

  That’s gratitude for you, he thought.

  “Oh, very well. Tell me how they plan to kill Mya’s bodyguard, and you can see your precious wife.”

  “Poison and trickery.”

  “Trickery?” Folding a few light blue swatches together, he handed them to Kiesha. “Have my seamstress make you a gown from each of these. Tell her: elegant, but not showy.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “You can go.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Kiesha quickly plucked her gray gown from the floor, clutching it to cover her breasts.

  “I want that rag burned.” Hensen’s voice brooked no argument. “And never wear anything so ugly in my presence again.”

  “Yes, sir.” Her lips clenched in a tight line, Kiesha nodded and strode from the room quickly, but calmly.

  Hensen noted the hungry stare with which Sereth followed Kiesha’s exit. The assassin’s hands were clenched so hard that his knuckles shone white. That might be of use, he thought. A man without his wife is a lonely man indeed.

  “So!” The master thief plopped into a well-cushioned chair, neglecting to offer Sereth a seat. “Tell me all about this assassination plot.”

  Chapter XIII

  It’s been two days, Mya. You must have learned something by now.” Lad kept his voice low enough that only Mya could hear as they entered the Golden Cockerel, not difficult with the evening din. He didn’t leave immediately at seeing her in, as he usually did, but followed her toward the back room. “We traipsed around the entire city today, and you didn’t ask a single one of your people to look into this like you promised.”

  Mya didn’t answer until Mika shut the door behind them. “I told you I’d look into it, and I am. It’s not that simple.”

  That was the same answer she’d given him all day. She must be tired of saying it. He was certainly tired of hearing it. Lad had thought that if he badgered her, Mya might get irate enough to drop her guard and say or do something that would reveal what she was hiding. He was convinced that she knew something about Vonlith’s death. He had been reading her body language long enough to know when she was lying. Walking around the city, he had to be careful what he said, but here they could talk freely, and after today’s trek she had to be tired. Fatigue might make her more likely to let something slip.

  “What’s not simple about it? We find Vonlith’s killer, point Norwood at him, and we’re done.”

  “It’s not that simple because this was a professional assassination, Lad.” Mya picked up a towel from the table and rubbed her hair dry. When she finished, her short crimson locks stuck up in all directions. “My people found out that much. I also sent out some feelers, good journeymen who have contacts in the other factions, and nobody has heard this mentioned as a guild assassination. But if it was one of ours, outing the killer to the Royal Guard would be a breach of guild law. I’ve got to be careful. If the other masters suspect that I might rat out one of their people to protect one of my own, they’ll kill me for it.”

  Lad had not spotted a single one of her tells. She seemed to be telling him the truth. His frustration grew. “How would that change things, Mya? They’ve already tried to kill you.”

  “They try to kill me individually. And to be honest, I return the favor occasionally. You don’t think Patrice’s predecessor really died of a heart attack, do you?” She smoothed down her hair,
then picked up the mug of mulled wine from the table and took a gulp.

  “You killed Calmarel?” The admission startled him. He had wondered about the Master Inquisitor’s sudden death, but Mya had never said anything. Then again, he had never asked. So why tell me now? Is she trying to show that she trusts me?

  “Not personally, but yes. She tried to have me killed, so I tracked her down and had someone slip foxglove extract into her tea.” She draped the towel over a chair back and gave him a sardonic look. “Tell me honestly; does that surprise you?”

  “Not really.”

  “Anyway, if they learned that I ratted out a guild member, all four of the masters would finally agree on something. They’d combine their resources, and my life wouldn’t be worth spit.” She took another draught of wine and sighed with pleasure. “This is very good, Lad. You should ask Pax for a cup on your way out. It’ll keep you warm on the way home.”

  Lad almost smiled. He must be really getting on her nerves. She usually wanted him to stay.

  “I have other things to keep me warm on my way home,” he said, thinking of the impending game of chase. “Could we point Norwood at someone outside the guild to keep him away from the inn?”

  “You mean frame someone?” Mya grinned at him. “I’m proud of you, Lad! You’re starting to think like a proper assassin!” She moved to clap him on the shoulder, and he stepped back out of range. Her smile fell.

  “I already think like an assassin, Mya. I’ve been one far longer than you.”

  “No, Lad,” she said, her voice low and hard. “You were the weapon of an assassin. There’s more to being one of us than knowing how to kill. I may be no match for you in a fight, but I’m very good at what I do, and that’s thinking. The brain is the most dangerous weapon of all.”

  “Fine.” Lad felt an uncharacteristic surge of anger at the implication that she was smarter than he. She wasn’t, but he had to admit that her mind moved in devious ways that he couldn’t match. “Use your brain and find some stooge to satisfy Norwood. Pick an old enemy or something. Gods know you have enough of them.”

  Mya opened her mouth to reply, but the door opened, and Paxal entered with her dinner.

  “Evening, Pax.” She stepped around the table and took her seat.

  “Miss Mya.” The innkeeper looked at Lad, then back at her. “If I’m interrupting something, I can come back.”

  “No. No, we’re done.” Mya looked pointedly at Lad. “Be careful on your way home, Lad. Garrote weather, you know.”

  “Yes, Mya.” He gave her a short bow, playing his part as her dutiful bodyguard, and left the room, angry with himself. The verbal sparring had gotten him nowhere, and now she was on the defensive. Her reasons for her actions were sound and he had not detected a single one of her tells.

  The brain is the most dangerous weapon of all. Remember!

  This was not among the countless lessons he’d been taught, but he knew she was right. He had not been trained to think beyond immediate tactics, attack and defense. Mya, on the other hand… The ways of her mind were darker and more labyrinthine than the back alleys of the Sprawls.

  But Lad had learned a great deal in the last five years. He’d watched her run her Hunters like an efficient machine, building her business, and outwitting her competitors by anticipating their every move. Pitting himself against Mya with his usual tactics would be like beating a brick wall with his fists. The wall might break eventually, but his fists would break first.

  So start thinking ahead. Lad walked through the common room, ignoring the din of laughter, the clatter of dice, and the flip of cards. Why is Mya being evasive about Vonlith’s death? What doesn’t she want me to find out?

  He thought hard as he automatically sidestepped a busy barmaid carrying a heavy tray of drinks, posing and answering questions. Why is Mya being evasive? She knows something about the killing. What might she know about it? Who the killer is. Why would she protect the killer? Because he or she is a friend. No, Mya has no friends. She considers me a friend, but other than that, her only friend is…herself.

  Lad stopped in the doorway. He hadn’t considered that Mya may have killed the mage. He couldn’t think of a reason why she would, then remembered what she had said to him. She thought he would be relieved that Vonlith was dead. One less person who knew his secret.

  Did she kill Vonlith in a misguided attempt to protect me? Is this another death on my conscience? Mya knew Lad abhorred killing. Was she afraid of what he might do if he found out she had killed on his behalf? What would he do? Whatever else Mya had done, she had helped him escape his slavery and kill the Grandfather. Without her, he would have been the guildmaster’s weapon forever.

  But without her they might never have caught me in the first place. Did she have a choice in that assignment? Could she have rebelled? No. She was the Grandfather’s slave. She’d had no choice, just as he’d had no choice.

  With too many questions and not enough answers, Lad walked out of the Golden Cockerel into the rain, and took a deep, steadying breath. A challenging chase through the streets of Twailin would clear his head. He stepped away from the pub and scanned the darkness with all of his senses.

  Nothing.

  These stalkers were getting good, apparently waiting for him to move to reveal themselves. Lad jogged slowly down the street, rounded a corner and stopped to listen. Still nothing. He squinted into the darkness, straining to hear, breathing deeply of the rain-washed air in hopes of catching a scent, all to no avail.

  No stalkers tonight? He was disappointed. It wasn’t unusual for them to skip a night or two, but he’d been perversely looking forward to the exercise.

  Even so, Lad moved into the shadows and made his careful way up the street, listening and gauging the night. He thought for a moment that he might have heard the scuff of a soft boot against stone, but when he stopped again, he detected nothing. If someone was following him, they were very good indeed. The rain had slackened, but not stopped completely, so his senses weren’t at their peak. He turned a corner, still not heading toward home, and finally heard something. He knew immediately, however, that this wasn’t a stalker; they were too noisy for that.

  A woman’s laughter, a man’s slurred reply cut through the hiss of rain. Lad cocked his head; they were in the alley just ahead, next to The Silver Thistle. The pub was a well-known rendezvous for the ladies and gents of the evening and their clients. Business was always booming and, from the giggles and grunts he heard, some of that business had spilled into the alley.

  Not my business.

  As he traversed the mouth of the alley, however, the man’s voice raised in a shout.

  “Filthy slut! Gimme that back!” The impact of a fist against yielding flesh and a cry of pain stopped Lad in his tracks. He peered down the alley to see a large man bending over a petite woman.

  “Wait! I didn’t—”

  “I’ll teach you to pinch a purse while a man’s pants are down!” The man’s fist fell again, and the woman’s head jerked with the impact.

  Maybe this is my business.

  This pub was in Mya’s territory, and she collected a percentage of the money made on the prostitution and gambling that took place there. The owner also paid her for protection. It seemed only right that Lad actually provide some protection.

  Lad strode into the alley. “Stop!”

  “What?” The main straightened and turned. “Who’s that?”

  “Who I am isn’t your concern. Now walk away from her.”

  “If you’re not a constable, and you’re not one of Jonesy’s boys, then this ain’t your business.” The man pointed down at the woman with one hand, the other fumbling to finish buttoning his codpiece. “She tried to lift my purse while we were conductin’ a bit of business. I’m just teachin’ her a lesson.”

  “She’s learned her lesson, now walk away.”

  “She ain’t learned half of what I aim to teach her, boy, so you best be on your way.” The man reached down,
grasped the front of the woman’s dress, and lifted her easily. His other hand cocked back in a fist. The woman’s piteous shriek split the rain-soaked night.

  The scream dredged up a memory of the Tap and Kettle store room. The sight of four thugs threatening Wiggen and Forbish, Wiggen’s wail of terror as a man’s dagger rested against her throat, her dress torn, tears soaking her cheeks.

  Lad moved.

  He caught the man’s fist before the blow fell and jerked two fingers out of joint. The man yelped and dropped the woman, swinging toward Lad with a roundhouse blow. Lad watched the fist come at him, ducked under it and planted a careful punch into the brute’s solar plexus.

  Nerve clusters are targets of incapacitation when killing is to be avoided. Remember!

  Lad didn’t want to kill the man, just dissuade him, and his blow struck true. A spray of air and spittle left the man’s mouth, but there was muscle under the fat, and he was stronger than he looked. His hand reached for his belt and came up with a pitted dagger.

  “You picked the wrong fight, boy.”

  “No, I didn’t.” Lad stood easily within reach of the dagger. “Now walk away, or I’ll break more of your fingers.”

  The thrust came at him with surprising speed and accuracy, but for Lad it moved like the flow of syrup on a cold morning. Grasping the man’s wrist, Lad pirouetted around the thrust, and drove an elbow into the same spot he’d punched a moment before, harder this time. The man bent double with the blow, gasping feebly. Lad took the dagger away, cast it aside, and broke two more fingers. As the brute emitted a wheezing yelp, Lad twisted the man’s mangled hand behind his back.

  “Now walk away while you still can!” Lad shoved him toward the street, and was pleased when the man kept going, glaring back and holding his two injured hands over his stomach.

  After the man rounded the corner, Lad turned to the sodden bundle of skirts behind him. “Are you all right?”

  “I…think so.” The woman sniffed wetly, and wiped blood from her face with the back of her hand. “Bastard would have killed me over a couple a’ coins. Thank you, sir.” She held out a hand. “A hand up, if you please.”