Weapon of Vengeance (Weapon of Flesh Trilogy)

by Jackson, Chris A.

  The door opened and closed, and he listened to Dee setting out breakfast. The scents of blackbrew, bread, bacon, and spiced porridge wafted onto the balcony in an aromatic tide. Lad’s mouth watered despite his lack of appetite. His body knew it needed food, even if he forgot. Loitering another minute on the balcony, he watched the mists recede from the rooftops below and listened to the cocks crow in the new day.

  Another day without Wiggen.

  “Breakfast, Master.”

  “Yes, Dee.”

  Lad turned away from the beauty of the sunrise and strode to the table, scowling at the white linen, silver flatware, and porcelain dishes filigreed with gold. He was a simple man with simple tastes; this luxury rubbed him the wrong way. Dee steadfastly remained standing—“It’s only proper for me to wait until you’re seated, Guildmaster,” had been his excuse—until Lad dropped into his chair. As Dee took a chair across the table, Lad picked up the cup of blackbrew perfectly lightened with cream and sipped.

  “What letters today?” He nodded to the short pile at Dee’s elbow as he slathered a slice of warm bread with strawberry preserves. He ate mechanically, ignoring the flavors and aromas. They only reminded him of home, though the bread wasn’t nearly as good as Forbish’s.

  “Yesterday’s progress reports from the masters,” Dee pushed several sheets of parchment across the table, “a note from the moneylender we set up your accounts with,” he added a formal letter that bore the embossed crest of Lad’s bank, “and this.” He held up an envelope, a quizzical expression on his face. “A private letter. It’s sealed, so you’ll have to open it yourself.”

  “Who would be sending me a private letter?” Lad stuffed the rest of the bread into his mouth and chased it with a swallow of blackbrew before snatching the envelope and reading the front. His newly assumed name and address gleamed black against the expensive white vellum. “Is this from one of the masters? I’ve only had this name and address for three days. Who else would know it?”

  “No, sir, it’s not from any of the masters. It’s possible that a local social organization obtained your new name from the lease of the house and sent you an invitation, but…” Dee looked dubious as his voice trailed off, and he motioned for Lad to flip it over. The envelope was sealed with black wax, conspicuously smooth. “Social clubs generally don’t use magic to seal their missives.”

  “No imprint?” Although Lad had received few letters in his life, he had seen enough to know that a person’s seal was their calling card, a little bit of ego impressed in wax. “Could it be a trap?”

  “It’s possible, Master. Pressing your ring against the seal will tell you if there’s any dangerous magic.”

  Thankful for the reminder, Lad pressed the guildmaster’s ring to the black wax. The mild tingle told him that the letter was merely sealed to prevent someone other than the recipient from opening it. An electric jolt would have indicated a malicious spell. He was relieved, but knew that there were other threats that his ring would not detect. Holding the envelope to his nose, he inhaled, but detected no odors that would indicate poison. Still, he felt apprehensive.

  “We can find out what’s written inside without opening the envelope, can’t we?”

  Dee stiffened, and his gaze dropped. “Yes, sir. I hadn’t thought of that.” He rose and walked to the ornate credenza that dominated one wall of the suite’s salon. After retrieving an object from a hidden compartment in the center drawer, he returned and handed it over.

  Lad took the small magical magnifying glass. No wonder Dee hadn’t thought of it. He probably didn’t like to remember Moirin, the barmaid who had seduced him in order to spy on Mya. Not only had his affair with the woman allowed her access to Mya’s business and personal documents; when he caught her, she had taken poison to evade capture. She’d died in Dee’s arms. Lad knew what that felt like.

  Mya had given the glass to Lad with the simple explanation, “You need it more than I do.” He’d been shocked to discover the rarity and intrinsic value of such devices. If he sold it, Lad could afford to buy his townhouse outright, rather than lease. But it was too useful to sell.

  Lad passed the magnifying glass over the sealed envelope, and precise script swam up through the fine parchment. Squinting through the confused overlap due to the fold, he was able to decipher enough to make him catch his breath. Dropping the glass, he broke the seal, slipped the letter out, and read. The message was brief, to the point, and utterly impossible.

  Guildmaster Lad

  Twailin Assassins Guild

  It has come to my attention that you have assumed the position of Twailin Guildmaster. Although you were not my first choice, I am not particularly displeased with the outcome.

  Congratulations.

  Allow me to lay down the rules. Your unprecedented ascension to the guildmaster position will not excuse any delay in payments to the guild. My collectors will continue to inspect your finances at quarter-year intervals.

  You will travel to the city of Tsing within two months of your receipt of this letter so that we may personally discuss the particulars of your new position. Notify me through the usual communications channels of your anticipated date of arrival in the city. You will travel under your assumed identity, and engage a room at the Drake and Lion inn in Tsing. Dress appropriate to your station, and formally for our meeting. My representative will meet you at the Drake and Lion to provide you with the details of our meeting. Master Hunter Mya Ewlet will accompany you to this meeting. She will travel in the guise of your wife to avoid unwanted attention.

  Sincerely,

  Grandmaster

  Lad read the letter a second time, shaking his head in disbelief as he handed it to Dee. “This can’t be real, can it? Doesn’t the Grandmaster live in Tsing?”

  “He does, sir.”

  “It would have taken a letter at least a week to reach Twailin by the fastest messenger. I didn’t even have my new identity or this house a week ago. How could this happen?”

  “I…don’t know, sir.” Dee took the letter to the balcony and held it up to the morning light. “This is the Grandmaster’s crest.” Turning, he jumped to find his master right behind him.

  Lad stepped back. He didn’t try to move silently, he just did. At least Dee had stopped yelping when startled by Lad’s inadvertent stealth. Lad snatched the letter back. “How can this be? Are there magical means of delivering a letter?”

  Dee shrugged. “None that I know of. Perhaps it’s a forgery. If you press your ring to the crest, it should verify its authenticity.”

  Lad did as Dee suggested, and the now-familiar tingle ran up his arm. “It’s genuine.”

  Dee bit his lip. “It could be that the letter didn’t come from Tsing at all, but from someplace closer. That would mean…”

  Lad tensed as he finished Dee’s sentence. “That the Grandmaster’s here in Twailin.”

  Dee shifted, obviously discomforted by the conclusion. “Yes, sir.”

  “How could he be here? I thought he never left Tsing!”

  “That’s what everyone says, sir. When the Grandfather was killed, he just sent intermediaries. But no one in Twailin knows who the Grandmaster is or what he looks like. Only the guildmasters ever meet him in person.”

  “But why would he come here? The Grandmaster wouldn’t ride for two weeks in a carriage just to deliver a letter!”

  “I…I don’t know, sir.” Dee bit his lip again and took a step back, fear clear on his face.

  Lad sighed in exasperation and forced his temper down. He couldn’t have Dee too frightened of him to speak his mind. “I’m not going to kill you because you don’t know everything, Dee. Relax and finish your blackbrew.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dee returned to the table and refilled their cups, though his hand trembled slightly as he poured the cream. “Do you wish to send a reply?”

  “I suppose I have to at least confirm that I got his invitation.” Lad reached for more bread and preserves, his mind working over his co
ncerns as he chewed and swallowed.

  Two months… The standard coach to Tsing took almost two weeks, leaving him only six weeks to find Wiggen’s killer before he had to leave for his meeting with the Grandmaster. He would not—could not—leave Twailin before he avenged his wife.

  “Draft a letter thanking him for his understanding of the situation, and say that I’ll make every effort to be there within the allotted time. Make it cordial, but don’t make me sound like…” Like what? “…his slave.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dee jotted a note in the tiny book he kept in his pocket. “You’ll…um…need some new clothes for the trip, sir.”

  “Clothes?” The mundane issue irritated Lad to no end. It seemed like just another distraction from working to find Wiggen’s killer. “You just bought me a whole closetful of clothes. What’s wrong with them?”

  “Nothing, sir, but you’ll need travelling clothes, as well as something suitable for Tsing. It’s the capital of the empire, after all. And, of course, something formal for your meeting with the Grandmaster.” Dee sipped blackbrew, furrowing his brow as he considered his master. “He did stipulate formal attire, sir. If you insult him, you’ll not live to regret it.”

  “Fine!” Lad tossed back the last of his blackbrew and stood. “Buy me some new clothes.”

  “You’ll want a tailor to—”

  “Then hire a tailor! Hire whoever you want! Buy a whole house full of shit I don’t need!” He threw down his napkin and started for the door. “I’m going out! I’ll read the rest of the letters later. Tell the masters to be here tonight at sunset. I want to hear their reports from their own mouths.”

  Lad was out the door and halfway down the stairs to the street before he heard Dee’s tentative, “As you wish, Master.”

  The urgent knock snapped Norwood’s train of thought. He threw his pen down and glared at the door as it opened partway. “I told you—”

  “Sir!” The desk sergeant peered around the door, his face a mask of worry. “There’s a Lord Barrington here to see you. He requests—”

  The door burst all the way open before the sergeant could finish, and a tall man pushed his way into the captain’s office. The man’s brilliant green velvet jacket, gold waistcoat, and ornate rapier screamed wealth, and the small coat of arms on his breast pocket stated as clearly as a herald’s cry that blood as blue as a summer sky pulsed through his veins.

  “Lords of the realm do not request anything from the Royal Guard, Sergeant. Your purpose is to serve and protect us.”

  “Your pardon, milord.” The sergeant stepped around the lord, his face flushed as he saluted stiffly. “Lord Barrington would like a word with you, sir.”

  “Thank you, sergeant.” Norwood shifted his expression from annoyance to pleasant neutrality as he stood to greet the intruder.

  Norwood disliked dealing with sanctimonious nobles, but Lord Barrington was essentially correct. Some nobles pushed the bounds granted by title, influence, and money. Lord Barrington obviously possessed all three entitlements, and expected his due deference. The captain had learned long ago that a little servility—ass-kissing, as Tamir put it—was the most effective means of dealing with this breed.

  “What can the Royal Guard do for you today, milord?” He executed a precise military bow.

  “The reason for this visit is not what you can do for us, Captain Norwood, but what we can do for you.”

  “We, milord?” Though of noble blood, a mere lord was not due the royal ‘We’.

  Barrington suddenly realized that he stood alone and called sharply over his shoulder, “Leonard!”

  “Sorry, father.” A bright-eyed boy hurried in and shut the door. “I was just looking at the map they had out there. It’s fascinating!”

  “Captain Norwood, this is my son Leonard. He has made a discovery.”

  “Discovery, milord?” Norwood shifted his attention from the man to the boy. “What discovery?”

  “Tell the captain what you told me, Leonard.”

  “Yes, sir.” The youth turned to Norwood with the exuberance of a pup with a stick. “Well, sir, it’s about my arms training. My father though it would be best if I took dueling lessons, and we decided to hire someone different. Not the usual fencing master, you know.” He paused as if expecting a response or affirmation.

  Norwood smiled patiently, stifling his desire to wring the words out of the boy so he could get back to work. “No, I’m afraid I don’t know.”

  “Father says most of Twailin’s arms trainers have become staid in their techniques. He thought someone new might…give me an edge, so to say. So, he sent me to this new fellow, Sereth VonBruce. He’s got a place on Copper Street, just south of the bridge.” He paused again.

  “All right.” Norwood knew the street and the neighborhood, but not the specific trainer.

  “To the point, Leonard,” Lord Barrington prompted.

  “Yes, sir. Well, I was coming from my lesson the other day, and met my friend Torrie Atchinson outside, coming from his flute lesson. When I pointed VonBruce out to him, he said that I was being cheated, that VonBruce was nothing but a pretender, not a real arms master at all.” The young man puffed out his skinny chest and snorted in derision. “Well, I told him I’d be happy to show him a trick or two—Master VonBruce is teaching me how to deal with dishonorable attacks—but Torrie said that VonBruce was nothing but a bodyguard. Said he’d seen him trailing after Master DeVough, the fencing master Torrie used to train with. Of course, DeVough is dead now. He was killed in that massacre last week, you know, and the duke even confiscated his holdings!”

  “Wait! Horice DeVough?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  That name Norwood knew very well. He had to force himself not to glance at his diagram of the Fiveway Fountain massacre. Horice DeVough had warranted two pins—one for each half of his body. Unfortunately, by the time they had identified the body, his fencing salon had been abandoned, and most of his employees and associates had vanished. Only a few servants remained at DeVough’s home, and they—if they were to be believed—knew nothing about their master’s business. There had been no mention of a bodyguard.

  “You see? When I found that out, I told father, and he suggested that we come to you!”

  “That was wise of you, Lord Barrington. Thank you.” Norwood plucked a notebook from the clutter of his desk. “What’s the name of VonBruce’s training academy, please?”

  “It’s called The Dangerous End,” Leonard said. “Do you think Master VonBruce was involved in the killings?”

  “Oh, I doubt it,” Norwood assured the lad with a casual smile. He didn’t want rumors to start spreading. “More likely his old boss just got tangled up with the wrong sort. Rest assured, we’ll look into it.”

  “Captain,” Lord Barrington leaned closer, his brow wrinkled with concern, “do you think it’s dangerous for my son to continue training there?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so, but I certainly wouldn’t go boasting about it.” Norwood leveled a serious stare at Leonard. “In fact, I’d much rather you didn’t cancel your contract with VonBruce. At least not yet. I’ll be sending someone down there to ask some questions, and it would be best if the fellow didn’t find out who tipped us off. Even if this is nothing, there might be hard feelings.”

  “And if this VonBruce was involved in the recent violence, my son’s life is at risk.” Barrington’s eyes flicked to his son, then back to Norwood.

  “Oh, father!”

  “I won’t have you used as bait in some plot to—”

  Norwood held up a hand. “Please, milord, let me explain my request.” He nodded to the boy. “Consider for a moment what VonBruce might think if, after my officer shows up to ask questions, he looks over his appointment book and sees that young Lord Barrington’s contract has recently been cancelled.”

  The elder lord pursed his lips. “I see.”

  “At present, there’s no reason to suspect that this VonBruce is anything more than a well-t
rained swordsman trying to earn a living in a career more peaceful than that of a mercenary, and more lucrative than that of a guardsman. It seems natural to me that he would gravitate toward his former master’s vocation. We’ll know more once we ask some questions, but until we do, it would be more dangerous for your son to quit his lessons than to continue.”

  “So you suggest we simply carry on as before?”

  “Exactly as before, yes. It would be wise not to let on that you know of VonBruce’s association with DeVough.”

  “Oh, that’s no problem!” The boy grinned like he’d been given a secret assignment by Duke Mir himself. “All he ever talks to me about is where to put my feet, anyway!”

  “Good.” Norwood bowed to his visitors. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”

  “I’m trying to teach my son that being a lord is more than simply holding a title.” Barrington fixed the boy with a meaningful stare. “It’s about putting the needs of the empire above your own. As nobles, we have a duty to uphold.”

  “He’s got a fine teacher, then, milord.” Norwood bowed again, more to hide his smirk than as a sign of respect. Duty! Barrington had never served in the military, and had certainly never put the good of the empire over his own political and financial ends. He had earned nothing on his own, inheriting his title and fortune from his father, who had, in turn, inherited it from his. “Now, I must do my duty as well.”

  Once the door had closed behind their noble backs, Norwood sat down at his desk and referred to his notes. Tamir was probably sick of canvasing tinkers’ shops for the maker of the black darts, and might welcome an opportunity to do a little interrogation. He just hoped his sergeant wasn’t too hard on the new fencing master.

  Chapter V

  Mya glanced up at the street sign. Greensleeves Way. Almost there. Stopping, she turned to look back down at the stunning view of the lower city. The morning sun glinted off the river in a breathtaking display, beauty reserved for the affluent living on the hill.