Weapon of Blood

by Chris A. Jackson

  “So, Mya’s protected from us because she’s wearing the ring, and protected from anyone we might hire from outside the guild by a bodyguard who’s not only seemingly invincible, but now also wary.” Horice reached for a bottle of wine, wrenched the cork free, and filled his glass with the crimson liquid. “What now?”

  “I say we tell Mya the truth.”

  They all looked at Patrice as if she’d just admitted to being a spy for the Royal Guard.

  “Tell her we know she wears the guildmaster’s ring?” Horice gave a snort of disbelief and quaffed half of his glass of wine. “She’d kill us all, and we’d be unable to touch her!”

  “Not that much truth, Horice.” The Master Inquisitor tapped her rouged lips, a behavior Sereth was beginning to recognize as habitual when the woman was deep in thought. “Tell her of our concerns that the guild is being destroyed by our seemingly intractable lack of cooperation. Even she can’t disagree with that. Then tell her that we’ve decided to hold a vote to forge a new guildmaster’s ring and elect a new leader.”

  “You want to bring her into a meeting?” Youtrin shifted in his seat. “Sit in a room with an assassin we can’t fight, not to mention her unbeatable bodyguard? That’s beyond dangerous. It’s stupid!”

  “Yes, it is dangerous, which is why we must placate her. We must hint, at the very least, that we’ll back her bid for the guildmaster’s position. She is, after all, the most successful of us.”

  Youtrin didn’t seem convinced. “If she wears the ring, how can she allow us to forge a new one?”

  “She can’t,” Patrice countered with a sly smile. “This is why we must give her the chance to destroy the ring.”

  “Destroy it? How can she do that if she can’t even take it off?”

  “Horice, please.” Neera dismissed the Master Blade’s concern with a wave. “She could order that bodyguard of hers to cut it off. He’s not bound by a guild blood contract, so there would be no problem.” She turned to Patrice with a nod of affirmation. “If she knows we plan to forge a ring, not destroying hers would bring her deceit out into the open. Then she would have to answer to the Grandmaster, who is the one force she cannot flout with impunity.”

  “Exactly.” Patrice smiled like a viper. “And once the ring is destroyed, she’ll be vulnerable to a concerted attack.”

  Sereth’s opinion of Patrice rose. Even Neera was following the Master Inquisitor’s lead. But she’d better not try to force her hand, he thought. Mya is no fool. If she gets wind of this plot, all her talk of goodwill will be so much dust in the wind, and she’ll send her weapon to kill them all.

  “It will be interesting to see how far she is willing to go to avoid forging a new ring.” Neera swept her ancient gaze from face to face. “So, if no one is opposed to this course of action…” Youtrin looked least comfortable with the plan, but no one dissented. “It’s agreed then.”

  The Master Alchemist turned to her bodyguard. “Have a message drafted. Master Hunter Mya’s presence is required for a meeting of the masters of the guild at—where is the next location?” At Yotrin’s raised hand, she continued. “At Youtrin’s warehouse, two hours past noon tomorrow—actually, it’s past midnight, so make that today. The matter is vital to the future of the guild. Attendance is not optional.”

  “This one better be worth being dragged all the way down here,” Norwood mumbled to Sergeant Tamir as they approached the City Guard captain.

  He got only a grunt in reply. Neither of them was happy about being summoned to the Westmarket District at this hour of the morning. The Royal Guard had already been called to six wild-goose chases in the past four days. Suspicious deaths, it seemed, were more common south of the river than the captain had expected when he requested notification of professional or peculiar killings.

  The captain of the City Guard didn’t look any happier. A half dozen of his guardsmen stood in the shadowed alley behind him. The morning sun lighting the rooftops was warm enough to raise steam from the shingles, but was not yet high enough to illuminate the streets. A guardsman guided a distraught woman from the alley, pointed her toward the nearby pub, and stopped to report to his supervisor.

  “The victim certainly looks like a trollop, sir, but not one of the regulars here. Betsy there worked last night ’til closing, and she’s never seen her around here.”

  Norwood stopped short, directing his rising ire at the captain. “What’s a dead prostitute got to do with the Royal Guard?”

  “A dead prostitute and a dead guardsman, Captain Norwood.” He turned on his heel and entered the alley, and the cordon of city guardsmen parted to let them pass. The captain stopped and pointed down at an odd scene. “When one of my men falls dead with no discernible cause, I call it mighty peculiar.”

  The prostitute in question lay on her side, her eyes open and staring up at the sky, an expression of surprise frozen on her pale face. Only a step away, a city guardsman was stretched out, face down, his arms at his sides.

  “Well, it’s peculiar, I’ll give you that.” Norwood peered at the woman’s face. Her nose was bent, probably broken, and her lip was split. “Looks like your man picked a fight with the wrong trollop,”

  “My man, Captain, did nothing of the kind!” He gestured irritably to a glowering guardsman nearby. “Tell him what happened, Corporal Nix.”

  “Yes, sir.” The corporal cleared his throat and began his recitation, obviously not for the first time that morning. “We arrived about two hours ago, after we was called by the pub owner. One of his maids found the body when she was takin’ out the night waste. We found the victim layin’ just like she is. It was still pretty dark, but we seen enough like this to think she’d been raped and beaten to death. Alan reached down to check how stiff she was, then yelped, turned, took one step and fell over. I never seen anythin’ like it. I thought it might be magic, a curse of some kind, so I sent a runner to fetch the captain.”

  Norwood’s anger abated at the tremor in the guardsman’s voice. He’d just lost his partner, probably a close friend. And if the man’s account was accurate, his friend may have died from some kind of curse. Corporal Nix was rightfully shaken, but Norwood needed more details.

  “Nobody’s touched the bodies since?”

  “No, sir! We just blocked off the alley and sent for the captain.”

  “And when I learned the details, and that there might be magic involved, I sent messengers for you and the duke’s wizard.”

  “Rightly so, Captain.”

  Norwood stepped closer and peered down at the woman. There was no blood, or at least, none that the rain hadn’t washed away. The split lip was not scabbed, and there was no bruising, so she’d probably been beaten right before she died. But had the beating killed her? Most beating victims were found curled up, trying to protect themselves from their assailants, but this woman seemed to have been staring straight up at her attacker, with a wide-eyed expression of surprise on her face rather than a grimace of pain. In his experience, these elements didn’t support the idea that she’d been beaten to death.

  “So, Corporal, your partner approached, reached down to touch the victim, then died.”

  “Well, first he poked her with his stick, sir,” the corporal said. “To make sure she wasn’t…um…well, to make sure she was dead-dead, you know.”

  Norwood nodded absently. Legends of the walking dead were still alive among Twailin’s superstitious lower classes, even though it had been decades since the last of the necromancers had been rooted out and put to the torch.

  “Give me your truncheon, Sergeant.”

  Tamir lifted the two-foot length of hardwood from his belt and handed it over. The stick was heavy, weighted with lead to give it more stopping power.

  “Shouldn’t we wait for the duke’s wizard?” the City Guard captain asked.

  “It’ll take Master Woefler hours to get here. Don’t worry, Captain. If I drop dead, you can tell the duke I said it was my own fault.”

  “You b
et your sweet pension I will, Captain Norwood.” The man folded his arms and took a long step back, glowering his disapproval.

  Warily, Norwood tried to turn the woman’s head with the tip of the stick, and found that rigor mortis had stiffened her neck enough that he couldn’t. More than a few hours dead, he thought. He had noted only one rat bite on the corpse, and assumed that she had died not too long ago. Curious now, he looked her over carefully. A fleck of black on her neck contrasted starkly with her pale, waxy skin. He’d thought was a bit of detritus or soot until he considered her sodden clothing. Odd that the rain didn’t wash that away. Norwood leaned in for a closer look.

  “Ah, sir, do you think that’s wise?”

  Ignoring Tamir’s warning, Norwood saw that the fleck wasn’t dirt at all, but a tiny tuft of feathers. He drew his dagger and poked the tuft with the tip, but it remained stuck to the woman’s neck. Delicately, trying to not touch the woman’s bare skin in case she did bear some kind of curse, he pinched the tuft between thumb and finger and pulled. A dart the length of the last two joints of his index finger slid out of the sheath of flesh. The dart’s shaft shone black in the dim morning light, its tip beveled and hollow.

  “Well, I don’t know how your man died, Captain, but this woman was poisoned, or I’m a court jester.” He held up the dart for them to see. “Got an evidence bottle, Tam?”

  “Right here, sir.” Tamir held out a small glass jar. Norwood dropped the dart into it, and the sergeant stoppered it and sealed it with a smear of soft wax.

  “That goes to Woefler. He knows every alchemist in the city. Depending on what kind of poison was used, we could potentially track down the supplier and maybe find out who killed her. It may not put a dent in the violence, but it’s a start. The duke has been pressing for progress on this.” He turned back to the corporal. “So, your partner poked her with his stick. What next?”

  “He reached down and lifted her arm to see how stiff she was. Then, like I said, he gave a little yelp, like, and snatched his hand back. Then he turned to me with a strange look on his face, took one step, gasped, and fell flat, just like you see him.”

  “Which hand did he touch her with?”

  “Uh, his right, I think, sir.”

  The man had collapsed without even trying to break his fall, sprawled with his hands palm up at his sides. Norwood examined his right hand, moving the fingers with the tip of his dagger, still wary of some type of magic. The constable had died less than two hours ago, so his fingers were still pliant. In the center of his palm, a single spot of blood caught the captain’s eye. It had not yet rained this morning, so the hand hadn’t been washed clean. Norwood scraped the edge of his dagger across the man’s palm, shaving away the clotted blood. There, barely visible, a tiny pinprick marred the tough callus.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” Norwood stood and sheathed his dagger. “Where did he grab her?”

  “I don’t really remember, sir. I think he just grabbed her hand to see if her fingers had gone stiff.”

  Norwood peered at the dead woman’s hand, and spied a ring on her index finger. Using Tamir’s truncheon to lift her thumb out of the way, he saw the long needle set into the underside of the ring.

  “Have a look, Captain. Your man was murdered by a dead woman. The ring on her finger has a needle on the underside that was undoubtedly poisoned. Whoever killed her with that dart also used poison. It seems pretty clear that we’re dealing with professionals here.”

  “Professionals. You mean assassins.”

  The captain’s tone was hard, but Norwood could hear the underlying fear, and couldn’t blame the man. He considered telling him what he had learned from his midnight visitor about the source of the violence, but didn’t want the entire City Guard to know. No, he’d keep that information to himself for the time being. Better to stick with hints for now.

  “Yes, I mean assassins, Captain. This murder is a puzzle, more sophisticated than most, and poses some interesting questions. Who killed the killer, and who was the killer supposed to kill? Either she didn’t succeed, or someone took that body away.” He scratched his stubbled jaw and sighed. “I’ll be interested to hear what Master Woefler thinks of this scene.”

  “But you said they were both poisoned. Do we still need to bring the wizard in?”

  “As I said, Master Woefler knows every alchemist in the city. Besides, just because they were poisoned doesn’t mean magic is out of the question.” Norwood gave the captain a thin smile.

  “Master Woefler’s welcome to look all he wants, Captain Norwood, and good luck to him.” The City Guard captain nodded to his men. “We’ll share anything we find out from the pub owner and his staff, of course.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” Norwood turned and headed out of the alley, Tamir at his side. Pointing to the bottle containing the dart, he said, “Give that to Master Woefler first thing, Tam, and don’t forget to tell him about the poisoned ring. I’d hate to have him drop dead, too.”

  “You want me to stay here and help him, I suppose.” Tamir didn’t sound happy about the arrangement.

  “Is there a problem with that, Sergeant?”

  “No problem, sir.”

  “Good.”

  “I just wonder why you hate me so much.”

  Norwood couldn’t suppress a smile as he boarded his carriage and ordered the driver to take him to his office.

  Hensen looked up as the door to the breakfast room opened, smiling at his assistant as she strode gracefully in, blue dress glittering in the morning sun, ledger in hand. A complex coif left tendrils of hair curling down the nape of her exquisite neck.

  Lovely…

  “Since you are alive and looking quite beautiful this morning, I venture a guess that last night’s operation was a success.” He speared a tiny bit of sausage and popped it into his mouth.

  “Yes, sir. Lad is still alive.” She curtsied at his compliment in a manner that showed off her new dress nicely. “I had to intervene, so he undoubtedly knows someone is protecting him, but he lives.”

  “So, Sereth’s information was accurate?”

  “Perfectly accurate. My people located the teams of assassins before Lad even left the inn. I waited until he came out, saw which direction he took, then made sure I got there before him.”

  “So, he knows someone is protecting him.” Hensen sipped his tea and narrowed his eyes at her. “Did he see you?”

  “No, sir. I stayed behind the roof edge, and left immediately after I shot the assassin.”

  “How do you know you were successful if you didn’t stay around?”

  Kiesha shrugged away his concern. “I don’t miss, sir. Besides, I couldn’t tarry and risk a chase. I’d have lost. Our operatives watching the Tap and Kettle reported that Lad returned home safe, and all was quiet for the rest of the night.”

  Hensen smiled, picturing the puzzled expression that must have crossed that sweet young man’s face after Kiesha’s life-saving intervention. “Good. Let him wonder who his mysterious guardian is.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hensen sipped his tea and smiled at his beautiful assistant. “You’ve done quite well.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And this confirms that Sereth is being forthright with us, despite his recent obstinacy.”

  “It does, sir.”

  “And the dress is quite lovely.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Continue to keep both Mya and Lad under observation and alive, but keep our people hidden. If any of our operatives feel that they have been spotted, they are to retreat, and under no circumstances are they to allow themselves to be captured. We can’t allow anyone to track them back to us.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Hensen sipped his tea and ate a few more bites of breakfast while he considered the next step. Kiesha stood and waited patiently; she was well-trained.

  “Send a message to Sereth. Thank him for this information, and tell him to inform us immediately of
any other plots against Master Hunter Mya or her bodyguard.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Also, contact our operative at the Golden Cockerel. I’d like to know if Mya has sent any letters to Tsing yet.”

  “Yes, sir.” Kiesha made a note in her ledger.

  “Excellent.” Hensen ate the last of his sausage and wiped his mouth with his silk-embroidered napkin. “So, what else is on the agenda for today?”

  “We received a report from our operatives assigned to investigate Baron Patino.” Kiesha placed a single sheet of parchment beside his plate. “It would appear that our benefactor is who and what he says he is.”

  “Hmm, yes.” Hensen read the document carefully. “Third generation nobility, ample funds, and three country estates. Well, he can certainly afford to contract us.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The report also stated that the baron paid his taxes, liked to socialize, had two mistresses who didn’t know about one another, though his wife knew about both of them, and had no known affiliation with any element of organized crime. This meant one of two things: either he was extremely subtle in his underworld business transactions, or he was a front for some yet unknown person interested in the Assassins Guild.

  “I want him kept under surveillance, but at a distance. And find out who handles his correspondence. If Patino is indeed as innocent as he appears to be, it could be an underling sending out letters and embezzling funds under the good baron’s nose without his knowledge.”

  “Very good, sir.” Kiesha scratched another note in her ledger, then handed him an envelope. “This for you specifically, sir. It’s been examined.”

  “Thank you.” He cracked the seal with his eating knife, flipped open the letter and read.

  Hensen had always prided himself on maintaining his poise. You must be like a swan, his old master had told him when he was but a boy. Beautiful, regal, and calm above the surface where people can see. Only beneath, where they cannot see, are you allowed to paddle like there is an alligator ready to bite you in the ass.