Weapon of Blood

by Chris A. Jackson

  Lad reached out. “I don’t think he—”

  The puff of air from a blowgun sounded from overhead and behind, barely louder than the hiss of rain.

  Displacement is the only defense against a concealed missile attack. Remember!

  Lad leapt and twisted, moving every portion of his body out of its former position in a desperate attempt to dodge the dart. He heard the missile strike flesh and waited for the pain to indicate where it had hit. If he reacted quickly, he might be able to cut the dart out with the thug’s dagger and draw out the poison before it killed him.

  But there was no pain.

  The woman at his feet gasped, blinked up at him, and collapsed.

  Lad flattened himself against the wall and listened, wary of another shot. The patter of feet across the rooftop grew more distant by the second. Should he chase after the fleeing assailant? No, he should care for the woman. Looking down into the dead, open eyes staring up at him, he felt as if he’d been the one punched in the stomach. No amount of care could bring the woman back. The dart intended for him had hit her instead.

  Kneeling beside her, Lad located the dart deep in the flesh of her throat. The fletching, oily black and trimmed at a steep angle, showed dark against her pale skin, though the shaft was completely embedded. The poison had been swift and, he hoped, painless. A wave of guilt washed over him, and he clenched his fists in frustration.

  Some savior I am. If I had just passed by, she might be bruised, but she’d be alive.

  The least he could do was take her body someplace dry where the constables would find her before the rats did. He owed her that much. But as he bent to pick her up, her arm fell flat on the cobbles, and he caught a glint of light on metal.

  He froze, and slowly turned her hand palm up.

  The faint light that stretched into the alley from the street gleamed on a ring that encircled her finger, a long, grooved needle extending from the underside. This was the hand she had reached up to him, the one he’d been about to take. He examined the needle closely and saw the dark stain in the groove. He bent low to sniff it, but the rain masked the scent. He touched the side of the needle with one finger, then touched the finger to his tongue. It had an oily, rancid flavor that piqued recognition from his early training. Poison certainly, a lethal venom. He spat, rinsed his mouth with rain water, and spat again.

  “She was trying to kill me.”

  The fear in his own voice sounded strange to Lad. He had heard it often in others, but never his own. He had fallen prey to this very same trick once before, when Mya had captured him for the Grandfather. Envenomed rings were not an uncommon method of assassination, but he had missed the warning signs, had trusted a stranger in distress. He’d been inches from taking that hand, inches from death.

  Wiggen… Lissa…

  He had promised to be careful, assured Wiggen that he was in no serious danger, that it was Mya they were after. Lad had become accustomed to watching out for her, not himself. He had not been thinking like an assassin.

  And the assailant from above had been no assailant after all, but his savior.

  “Who?”

  That was just one of the questions for which he had no answers. Who was the dead woman? He examined her face closely, but drew a blank. He thought of the man whose fingers he’d broken, and drew another blank. He didn’t know all Mya’s people, much less all the assassins in the other guild factions. Who had sent them? Who wanted him dead? Who had saved his life?

  Lad looked up to the place from where his savior had shot.

  Had this been an attempt by one of Mya’s enemies to remove him, thus clearing the way to get to her? Was Mya even involved? She had seemed eager to get him to leave for home. Lad didn’t like this train of thought, but he had to follow it through. Would Mya have him killed for his curiosity about Vonlith’s murder? Had her watchers spotted him at Norwood’s house, and Mya drawn the wrong conclusion? Or had she sent the stealthy marksman who saved his life? The potential answers were even more troublesome than the questions.

  Lad dropped the dead woman’s wrist and considered his options.

  He dismissed the perverse desire to drag the corpse back to the Golden Cockerel and dump it on Mya’s dinner table, though the action might finally rattle the truth out of her. He considered taking the dart and asking around to see if he could discover the owner, then thought about taking the ring for the same reason. Neither course seemed likely to yield success. Though part of their faction, Lad was not a Hunter trained in tracking down information. He couldn’t show the dart and ring to Mya in case she was involved, and he certainly couldn’t ask the other masters.

  Turning on his heel, Lad left the woman where she lay. At the mouth of the alley, he looked both ways in the vain hope of spotting the man who had undoubtedly been her accomplice, but the street was empty. Should he hide and watch the corpse in the hope that he would return for her? No. His years among assassins had taught him that they didn’t work that way. Returning to the scene of a crime was a sure way to get killed.

  So Lad did what he did best; he vanished into the night.

  He ran through the rain-streaked streets flat out, so fast that nobody could have followed him. He leapt to balconies, scaled drain pipes, and hurtled from rooftop to rooftop until he knew with absolute certainty that no stalker, no watcher, no one, could have tracked him. Then he dropped to street level and melted into the shadows to make his careful way home to his wife and daughter.

  On the way, Lad girded his fears and considered his options. He could wait no longer; he had to do something. He would not risk losing all he had gained. He had never known love or a family until he came to Twailin, and now that he had them, he didn’t know how he had lived without. He wanted to watch his daughter grow up. He wanted to be with Wiggen. He wanted to be the best father and husband he could be, but to do that, he had to stay alive. And if things continued as they were, he would end up like the woman tonight, in an alley, stone-cold dead.

  “Wiggen?” The whisper invaded her dreams, her wonderful, quiet, peaceful dreams.

  Sleep…just a few more minutes…please.

  “Wiggen?” A warm hand settled on her shoulder.

  “Just a few more minutes…please.”

  “It’s not morning yet, Wig. I need to talk to you.”

  She rolled over, still half asleep, and blinked at her husband. His beautiful, slightly luminous eyes shone in the dark. “Lad? Can’t it wait until morning?”

  “I don’t think so, Wiggen. It’s important. Someone tried to kill me tonight.”

  “You mean someone tried to kill Mya?” She settled back onto her pillow and closed her eyes. “Sometimes I’d like to kill Mya…”

  “They didn’t try to kill Mya, Wiggen. They tried to kill me…and they almost succeeded.”

  Wiggen lurched up, fully awake. “What? Who?” She reached for the lamp and turned it up. Lad sat on the side of the bed, looking as strong and beautiful as always, except for the lines around his eyes and mouth. There was a look there that unnerved her, and it took her a moment to realize why; she had seen many emotions in his face, but never such fear.

  “I don’t know who she was, but it was very professional, and nearly successful. If not for some…someone else, I’d probably have died.”

  “Oh, gods!” She flung her arms around him, and felt his encircle her. She had always felt safe here, wrapped in his strength, his body so warm against hers, the beat of his heart so powerful it overwhelmed the pounding of her own. The thought of losing him stabbed like a knife. “Gods, I hate this, Lad! I hate it!”

  “I hate it, too, Wig. That’s why I woke you. We need to make a decision.”

  “Decision?” She released him and wiped the sudden tears from her eyes. “What decision?”

  “First let me tell you what’s happening.”

  “Okay.”

  Wiggen sat and listened to every detail, all his suppositions, his fears, his theories of who and why and how. By the
time he finished, her lip was clenched between her teeth to keep from screaming and waking the baby. She tried to calm her mind as Lad had taught her so long ago, and felt the panic subside, but it was a thin veneer. Someone had tried to take him from her.

  “Mya is involved, but I don’t know how. I thought that she might have tried to have me killed tonight, but it doesn’t make sense. If she wanted me dead, she could have done it herself a dozen times.”

  “What? How could she kill you?”

  “A pat on the back with a poisoned ring. Poison slipped into my food. Any number of ways.” Wiggen’s shock must have shown on her face, for Lad’s features suddenly flushed with guilt. He pressed a hand to her cheek and said, “I’m sorry, Wiggen.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would Mya want to kill you? You keep her safe!”

  He shook his head. “The more I think about it, the more I think it’s not her. It’s not in her best interest to kill me. But I still don’t trust her. I know she’s being evasive about Vonlith’s murder.”

  “Maybe she killed him.” Wiggen had never met Mya, but that didn’t keep her from loathing the woman. If not for Mya, Lad would be working at the inn, sitting down to meals with his family, and slipping into bed with her at a decent hour every night. But Mya had extracted a promise from Lad to protect her, and Lad was too honest to break his word. Wiggen knew that the same couldn’t be said about Mya; Lad’s stories of her deceptions and intrigues made her head whirl. It wouldn’t surprise Wiggen in the slightest to discover that Mya had murdered the runemage.

  “I thought about that, but it just doesn’t make sense. As far as I know, she’s had nothing to do with Vonlith for five years. And if she did it to try to protect me, to keep my identity a secret, it certainly didn’t work. It only brought the captain of the Royal Guard to the inn.” He rubbed his eyes with hands that were actually shaking. “I’ve either got to follow this through, find out who killed Vonlith, who just tried to kill me, and who saved my life, all of which will be dangerous, or…”

  “Or what?” Wiggen didn’t like the tone of his voice.

  “Or we leave Twailin.”

  “Leave?” It felt like a kick in the stomach. “Leave father?”

  “I know you’d hate it, Wiggen, but think.” He took her hands in his and squeezed gently. “They’re targeting me now, not just Mya. Someone killed Vonlith, and it looks like I might be next on the list. My first responsibility is to protect you and Lissa, and I can’t do that if I’m dead.”

  “But…gods, Lad, do we have to leave?” The thought of leaving her father brought as much pain as the thought of losing Lad. Forbish had worked so hard to keep his family and this inn together. Now, just when everything was going well, they had to leave?

  Lad grasped her shoulders. “I don’t want to, Wiggen.” He kissed her forehead and drew her into his arms. “But leaving might be the only answer.”

  “The only answer?” Wiggen nestled into Lad’s shoulder, inhaled the scent that was uniquely him, and thought hard. She loved her father and Josie and the twins. She had been born and raised in the inn, and knew nothing else. Then she tried to imagine living here without Lad…and couldn’t. There was only one answer.

  “When?” She couldn’t believe she had said it, but the decision brought a measure of peace. Everything would be all right. They’d get by. Wiggen pushed him back and wiped away her tears. “When will we leave?”

  “Soon. I’ll tell Mya tomorrow.”

  “You think you should tell her? Why not just go?”

  “She’s a Hunter, Wiggen. If we disappear, she’ll set every Hunter in the guild after us, and, trust me, they’d find us eventually, no matter where we went. I need to make sure I leave on good terms with her. Losing my protection will scare her, and that’s when she’s most dangerous.”

  “Mya scared?” Wiggen didn’t bother disguising her disbelief.

  “She always scared,” Lad said softly, his voice tinged with pity.

  “So am I.” Wiggen pulled him into her arms and held him as if she would never let go. Lad brushed her hair with his fingers and kissed her neck. His tenderness, his love for her, gave her strength.

  “Okay, tell her.” She raised her face to him and smiled through her tears. “But until morning, you’re mine.”

  “I’m always yours, Wiggen.” Lad pulled her into a deep, passionate kiss, his hands entwined in her hair.

  “Yes,” she murmured between their parted lips. “Always…”

  Bodies entwined in the lamplight, skin on skin, flesh on flesh…

  So beautiful…

  The rain dampened any sounds Mya might have heard through the thin pane of glass, but she could see clearly enough.

  Keep an eye on Lad. It had seemed a reasonable precaution. Crouched on the back wall of the inn courtyard, hidden in the shadows of a moonless night and torrential rain, she watched. She felt no discomfort, no chill, even though her clothes were soaked through. The wrappings beneath her clothes kept her comfortable, safe from the elements as they kept her secret safe from discovery.

  “But not from this,” she whispered, her gaze fixed upon the couple as they moved together: one body, one flesh. She could not pull her eyes away, could not feign disinterest or even disgust. But watching the only man she cared about making love to another woman felt like being slowly torn apart. This was a pain to which she was not immune.

  This, she thought as she wiped the rain from her face, this is what I want.

  This wasn’t just sex. This was love exemplified in physical form. This was what her life lacked, what she longed for but never dared allow herself to feel. She watched every move, every kiss, every caress, and each one deepened her loneliness.

  Only when Lad and Wiggen finally lay quiet in each other’s arms, spent and sated, warm and safe, did Mya stir. Wiping the water from her face, she dropped from the wall and headed for home. Only later, after wiping the wetness away once again, did she realize that it had stopped raining some time ago.

  Chapter XIV

  Sereth stared at Jud’s broken fingers, crooked, bruised, and painful, if the sweat running down the assassin’s face was any indication.

  Gods, how I’d love to do that to Hensen! he thought. Tie him down and break those delicate fingers of his one by one…

  Five minutes was all Sereth had been allowed with his beloved Jinny. Only five minutes to hold her soft hands, touch her hair, whisper how sorry he was. Not a single word of accusation passed her lips, but Sereth felt like he was drowning in guilt whenever he saw her. He was beginning to despair at ever breaking free from the master thief’s control. He knew the trap he was in: the more information he brought Hensen, the more information Hensen wanted.

  Jud winced as the guild healer straightened one of his broken fingers. To the man’s credit, he didn’t scream. His face streamed with sweat, but Sereth didn’t think it was entirely due to the pain. Jud was an Enforcer; he probably knew pain better than he knew his own name. But the glares of four irate master assassins were enough to make anyone sweat.

  “It went off like clockwork as far as I could tell. We had four teams set up around the Golden Cockerel, and got word when he stepped out the front door. He bought the whole ‘damsel in distress’ ploy hook, line, and sinker. He ran me off,” Jud nodded toward his injured hands, “and I went straight to the rendezvous. But Bertie didn’t show. He must have killed her.”

  “Perhaps Bertie succeeded, and he killed her before he died.” Patrice cocked an eyebrow in Neera’s direction.

  “Possible. The toxin is swift, but doesn’t kill instantly. He could have had time to kill her, given what we know of his abilities. Alternatively, if she failed, he may have taken her to Mya for questioning.”

  “We should send someone to have a look.”

  “We’ve already lost one person tonight,” Youtrin countered with a derisive glance at Horice. “We’ve got people in the City Guard who’ll tell us what happened. We’ll just have to wait until morni
ng.” Turning to the healer, he said, “Take Jud out, and see that his hands heal well. I’d hate to lose a good man.”

  “Thank you, Master.” Jud stood and followed the healer out of the room.

  The masters seated themselves at the table in the center of the room, Horice at the head, since he was hosting the meeting. Sereth stepped over to the door and snapped his fingers at the apprentice Blade who waited in the corridor. The girl bore a tray with crystal glasses and two bottles of fine wine. Setting it on the table by Horice’s elbow, she waited for Sereth’s nod before scurrying out. Taking up his protective stance behind his master’s chair, Sereth concentrated on the conversation.

  Neera sat back in her chair and cocked her head in thought. “It intrigues me that this weapon shows such compassion. He used only non-lethal force to persuade Jud to leave. He could just as easily have killed him.”

  “Mya must have told him not to kill anyone unnecessarily,” Horice hypothesized. “My people have told me that when she took over, Mya set new rules for her faction; more persuasion, less violence. Like that nonsense about public opinion she’s always trying to foist onto the rest of us.”

  Youtrin laughed scornfully, and even his huge bodyguard smiled at the ridiculous notion of a gentle Assassins Guild. Enforcers lived by violence and intimidation, not goodwill.

  “As much as I hate to work without all the facts,” Patrice said, “I think that we need to assume that the attempt failed, and concentrate on the real problem here. Mya. Is she apt to retaliate for this attack on her bodyguard?”

  “Against who?” asked Horice. “Even if she assumes one of us was behind it, she doesn’t know which one.”

  “Unless she’s got Bertie,” Youtrin protested.

  Neera waved her hand. “Worrying about retaliation is pointless until we know if Mya has Bertie, and we’ll know that soon enough.”