Weapon of Vengeance (Weapon of Flesh Trilogy)

by Jackson, Chris A.

  “Are you all right?” Mya asked.

  “I’m fine,” he lied. He forced himself to relax, leaning back against the soft upholstery and stretching his legs out comfortably. Still, Mya stared at him. “I don’t like carriages.”

  “Neither do I.” A smile flickered across her mouth. “You taught me that.”

  Lad looked out the carriage window, watching the familiar scenery pass them by. Leave Twailin… Leave Lissa… He forced a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to ease his mind into the light meditation he’d used for years. As always of late, his thoughts turned to Wiggen, bittersweet remembrances of the scent of her hair on her pillow as she slept, the touch of her hand on his face, the brush of her lips on his neck…

  Gone. She’s gone.

  A rustle of cloth and the creak of leather opened his eyes. Mya held a small book in her hands.

  “What are you reading?” The question was out of his mouth before he thought about it. Anything to distract his mind.

  “Just a novel.” She shrugged and met his eyes. “A made-up story.”

  “I know what a novel is.”

  “Sorry.”

  He looked back out the window. They were coming to Eastgate. Lad hadn’t been outside the city in five years. The last time he had passed this portal, he’d been a different person, less than human, bereft of emotion, and ignorant of what he was. Sometimes he longed for that blissful ignorance again.

  Wiggen…

  “Didn’t you bring anything to do during the trip?”

  “No.” Lad glanced at her with a flash of irritation. “I suppose I should have brought a novel along.”

  Ignoring his sarcasm, Mya opened her handbag and withdrew another book. This one was larger, with a leather binding and colorful paint on the edge. She handed it over. “Here. This will pass the time, and might even be helpful.”

  “The City of Tsing, Heart of the Empire Past and Present,” he read aloud. It had never occurred to him to read about Tsing before arriving. Though long familiar with reconnaissance, he generally learned through experience, firsthand observation, and exploration. The notion of reading a published tour guide to learn about their destination beforehand now seemed ludicrously obvious. Why didn’t I think of this?

  “It’s pretty dry reading, but there’s a lot of information, and even some maps.” Mya sat back again and opened her book. “It’s a big city. I thought it would help to at least know our way around.”

  Though seemingly relaxed, she sat stiffly, and Lad took a moment to surreptitiously examine her more closely. Her foot jiggled under the folds of her dress, and her finger tapped on the spine of her book, uncomfortable or nervous. Why? Maybe it was the carriage.

  “Yes. It should be useful.” He flipped open the cover and read the foreword, then thumbed ahead until he found a map. Streets crisscrossed the page, buildings jammed together in long blocks. It was a big city. Then he flipped the page and found another completely different map, and another, and another. “There are maps of several cities here.”

  “Those are just Tsing’s districts.” Mya looked up with a hint of amusement in her eyes. “There are six of them, and the Imperial Palace besides.”

  He counted the number of blocks across a single district. “But each one of these is as big as Twailin!”

  “Yes, and most are much more heavily populated.” She went back to her book. “I told you it was a big city.”

  “Yes, you did.” He’d known that, but he’d had no real sense of how big. In all his years living in Twailin, he’d never seen a map of the entire city. He’d learned its streets, alleys and rooftops by walking them, not by reading about them. It had taken him weeks to fully explore it, and months to learn all its nooks and crannies. Tsing would take years to learn. “Have you been there?”

  “No.” Mya didn’t even glance up, but her foot tapped faster.

  Of course. She’s nervous about being summoned by the Grandmaster. Lad had been so focused on his own problems that he’d forgotten her predicament. Masters were rarely summoned thus, and when they were, it generally wasn’t good. He had no idea how he might ease her fears, or if he should even try. “This will be helpful. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Her eyes continued their back and forth migration across the pages.

  Lad flipped through the maps, piecing together the districts of Tsing in his mind, marveling over the vastness of the city. What would it look like? What the people would be like? Turning to the table of contents, he perused the chapter titles: A Millennium of History, Biographies of Fifty-eight Emperors and Empresses, Economics and Trade, The Military, The Rise of Nobility, Laws Past and Present, and a final section on Entertainment and Leisure. This would be helpful indeed.

  He glanced back to Mya. She’s always thinking ahead, planning and plotting, looking for every advantage. I just stumble through, reacting to whatever comes my way… She was right; he didn’t think like an assassin. She, however, most certainly did.

  I should have given Mya the guildmaster’s ring.

  The thought was futile, of course. She hadn’t wanted it in the first place, and it was pointless to consider how things might have been different. The decision was made the moment he put it on. He was guildmaster. He could do nothing but be guildmaster. But he could not run the guild alone. He needed people like Mya, Dee, and Sereth, those who seemed to truly want to help him. He needed to learn how to better let them help him. Unfortunately, the only thing he’d learned was that managing people was a lot harder than killing them.

  The carriage rumbled beneath Eastgate’s high arch. Twailin was now behind them, and the city of Tsing ahead. Lad flipped to the first page of the book and began to read.

  Chapter XVI

  Norwood looked out the window as the carriage pulled up to the Farthane way-inn. Backlit by the twilit sky, the building cast a long shadow across the village commons. Perfect timing. He had hoped to arrive after dusk, when traffic would be sparser—not that a village this size had much in the way of bustling crowds to hide an assassin—but not too late for dinner.

  “Stay, Tango.” The captain reinforced his command with a hand signal. The dog regarded his master with intelligent eyes, silent and obedient. Norwood glanced at Tamir, who sat back in the shadows. He knew his job, though he’d groused some about it.

  Norwood opened the door. “Brutus, guard.”

  The mastiff hopped down from the carriage and froze, scanning the surroundings. This was where things could get dangerous. If Norwood’s theory was correct, and his ploy worked, the assassin could strike at any time. The instant he left the carriage might be that time. Norwood tried to look casual as he stepped down and closed the door behind him.

  No assassin. Norwood wasn’t sure if he was glad to still be alive, or disappointed that his plan might not work.

  A stableman stepped out of the barn door and hobbled across the courtyard toward him. Before he could approach close enough to see Tam inside, the captain banged on the side of the carriage and called up to the driver, “Bring the estate manager back as soon as you can. Don’t take no for an answer!”

  “Yes, sir!” The coachman cracked his whip, and the carriage clattered off into the deepening darkness.

  The stableman neared, halting when Brutus growled. “Help you, milord?”

  “Yes.” Norwood scratched Brutus’ massive head to calm him. “I’ll be staying the night, and need stabling for my team when they return.”

  “Of course, sir. Talk to the missus about rooms.” The man nodded toward the inn door, then peered nervously at the mastiff. “No dogs allowed in the inn, and I don’t want him in the barn. The horses won’t like it.”

  “He stays with me.” Without waiting for an argument, Norwood strode toward the inn, Brutus at his heel. He wasn’t about to sleep without the mastiff in the room, not tonight. A tall woman stopped him at the door.

  “No dogs in the house, sir. He’ll have to be kept outside.”

  “This is
n’t a dog. This is my second in command, Sergeant Brutus. He likes meat, and lots of it. I’m Captain Norwood of the Twailin Royal Guard.” Norwood fished a gold crown from his pocket and held it up. It was more than the price of a room, board and stabling for two days.

  “Don’t care if you’re Duke Mir himself. No dogs in the house.” She crossed her arms, ignoring the coin.

  “Your charter to operate this inn as an official way-station on the Imperial Highway is sanctioned by Duke Mir, ruler of this province. It’d be a shame if I had to advise the duke to revoke your charter due to your refusal to accommodate members of the Royal Guard.” He still held out the coin.

  She frowned, but took the coin and bit it. Looking down at the dented gold, she stuffed it into her apron pocket, stepped aside, and jerked her head toward the common room. “Late for supper. Stew and bread. Plenty of cold mutton for your sergeant.”

  “That’ll be fine. I’d like a private room for dinner, if there is one. I have business to discuss with the Farthane Estate manager.”

  “Down the hall in the back. It’ll be a silver crown.”

  “Dinner for two in the back room, then. My driver’s bringing the estate manager. See that he’s shown back, will you?”

  “She, you mean?” The woman looked dubiously at him.

  “Yes, she.” He hadn’t known the manager was a woman. He probably should have, but it didn’t matter.

  “I’ll have it served when she arrives.”

  “Very good. Heel, Brutus.”

  Norwood walked through the room, ignoring the few patrons. Brutus would growl if anyone made a move. The private room had a table, cold fireplace, one window, and four simple chairs. He took the seat facing the door and window and told Brutus to sit.

  The mastiff’s growl snapped Norwood out of a doze. His hand was on his dagger when the door opened to admit an irate woman in well-tailored workman’s clothes.

  “Captain Norwood, I presume?” She didn’t sound happy. “I’m Emi Jeico, manager of Farthane.”

  “Yes.” He stood and extended his hand. Her powerful grip surprised him. “Thank you for coming.” Norwood ushered her to a seat, and told the maid who had escorted her back, “Knock before you come in. I don’t want to be disturbed except by the staff bringing dinner.”

  “Yes, sir.” The maid closed the door.

  “I hope you haven’t eaten. I ordered dinner for two.”

  “As a matter of fact, Captain, I have eaten, and this summons has disturbed my digestion.” Jeico took a seat, her eyes narrow and suspicious. “Your sergeant wouldn’t give me any details. What’s this about?”

  “First, let me offer my condolences. Baron Patino is dead.”

  “What?” Her eyes widened. “When?”

  “Ten days ago. As for why I’m here, that’s a sensitive issue.” He lowered his voice. “You see, few know this yet, not even his wife, but Baron Patino was murdered.”

  “Murdered?” Her eyes widened further, her belligerence stifled by shock.

  “Yes, ma’am, and I’m here to ask your help in apprehending his killer.”

  Mya lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and listening, determined to stay awake despite her weariness. The first three days on the road had left her frustrated beyond reason, and she intended to do something about it.

  The first long day had established a maddeningly silent routine. Aside from an occasional comment about the book Lad was reading, there was no conversation, no discussion, not even any arguments. They dined in silence, and that was the last Mya saw of Lad until the next morning. The following day and the next had been the same: board the carriage after a silent breakfast, ride in silence, eat dinner in silence. Lad would slip into the room after she was abed, and was gone before she awoke the next morning. The only reason she knew he’d been there at all was the rumpled pillow and blanket on the floor.

  Mya took a deep breath, trying to control her frustration. This was so different from the easy banter they used to engage in as they walked the streets of Twailin, sharing ideas, observations, and theories. Then, she had felt safe under Lad’s vigilance. Now, she was fearful of him, afraid to open her mouth. She didn’t know what to make of his mood. The few times he had spoken, he asked her a question about the book, then seemed irritated when she tried to strike up a conversation. Every moment felt like a trial of patience, a silent torture designed to drive her mad.

  Tonight, she vowed, that’s going to change.

  Mya shifted in the bed, her blousy pajamas tangling about her legs. She’d never worn anything to bed until she’d been assigned her Enforcer bodyguards. Now she slipped them on over her wrappings every night.

  Where is he? It was late, and she was getting drowsy.

  Her silly fantasies had been crushed, of course, when he insisted on sleeping on the floor. Mya no longer harbored any fantasies, but this ridiculous silence was going to end.

  The door latch clicked quietly, and Mya froze, shutting her eyes and slowing her breathing as if asleep. She listened to the faint rustle of cloth as Lad entered and began to undress in the dark. Mya dared to open her eyes a slit. Starlight through the gap in the drapes provided enough light for her rune-enhanced eyes to see the play of muscles under his skin as he draped his shirt over the back of a chair. A fine tracery of scars wove around his body where some of his magical tattoos had burned away. Unlike Mya’s, Lad’s original tattoos were invisible. Only the new ones—the runes etched into his skin by Vonlith—could be seen, a line of black spiders on his chest. As he stepped out of his trousers to pull on the loose silk pants he slept in, warmth spread through Mya that her enchanted wrappings would not abate, a visceral heat that she knew she could never quench.

  Lad stretched out on the floor, flat on his back, and pulled the blanket up. For some time, Mya listened to him breathe, long inhalations and exhalations, steady and unchanging. Peering closer, she saw that his eyes were open, their luminosity winking in and out as he blinked.

  Enough, she thought, stifling her fear. He thanked me for the book. Maybe he’ll let me help.

  She sat up in the bed and leaned back against the headboard. “You don’t sleep, do you?”

  Lad jerked, turned to look at her, then away. “No.”

  “Would you like to talk?”

  “No.”

  “It might help.”

  “Nothing will help, Mya.” He flashed her an unreadable look, and rolled over. “I’ve tried everything. Nothing helps.”

  With a reckless impulse, she swallowed her fear and asked, “Have you tried holding a carrot between your toes?”

  He was on his feet in one instantaneous, fluid motion to glare at her. “Mocking me certainly won’t help!”

  “You’re sure?” Mya repressed the pointless urge to fight or flee, refusing to let him intimidate her. If he held everything in, he would eventually crack. Mya knew all about cracking; she had cracked once. “You seem to be focusing on being angry with me right now instead of obsessing, so it might.”

  Lad whirled away, wrenching open the window drapes to stare outside. Starlight illumed his torso, muscles tense beneath his skin, pulse pounding at his neck.

  Silence…

  “We could talk about something else.”

  Silence…

  “You think Hensen’s telling the truth about Kiesha, or is he just trying to protect her?”

  “He’s telling the truth.” Lad drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, his body relaxing just a bit with the exhalation. Mya knew the technique; she used it herself.

  He’s trying, at least.

  Not knowing what else to do, she pressed on. “And he said he didn’t know why she killed Wiggen.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you believed him on that, too.”

  “I…don’t know. He said she told him it was an accident.”

  “An accident? How could she kill anyone by accident?” A lot of things about this just didn’t make sense. Maybe talking it through would give her bette
r insight. Anything to keep Lad talking. “What I don’t get is what Kiesha was doing at Fiveway Fountain anyway! Why would the Thieves Guild give a damn if we all killed each other? And if she was just spying, why would she kill anyone, much less Wiggen?”

  Lad tensed, and his breath came a bit quicker, but he remained silent.

  What’s going on? The hairs rose up on the back of Mya’s neck. “Lad?”

  A long moment passed, then Lad sighed and turned around, his face a blank mask. “I didn’t tell you everything. There was something I didn’t want the masters to know, but…now…”

  “Okay.” This didn’t sound like Lad. Why would he withhold information? “What didn’t you want us to know?”

  “Kiesha was there to protect us, you and me.”

  “What?”

  “Hensen was contracted by Patino to keep us alive. She killed five other assassins during that fight. She was also the one who killed the assassin who tried to murder me in that Eastmarket alley. She saved my life.”

  “But…we assumed that the Grandmaster was behind that. So if Kiesha was protecting us, why would she kill Wig—” The puzzle pieces clicked together in Mya’s mind, and fear squeezed her heart in a vice. “The ring! Gods of Light, you don’t think…”

  “What I think doesn’t matter, Mya. I don’t know what to think. I need to find Kiesha to find out where her orders came from. I don’t think it was Hensen. It could have been Patino. And…it might have been the Grandmaster…”

  “But…we’re going to meet him!” She got up and began to pace, her steps halting. She had to think. Something didn’t fit. Think!

  “Yes. Maybe I’ll discover the truth.”

  “But how could he know? Nobody knew Wiggen wore the ring but you and me!”

  “Until the fight started.”