Weapon of Vengeance (Weapon of Flesh Trilogy)

by Jackson, Chris A.

  “I’m afraid it may take a while, ma’am.” Norwood nodded politely. “But I don’t want to keep you from your work. I just need to see the account books, so if you show me where they’re kept, you can get about your business.”

  “Fine.” She turned to the foreman. “Saddle my horse, Sinthas. I’ll be ten minutes.”

  Norwood mounted the steps to the porch, but Jieco stood in front of the open door, preventing his entrance.

  “You’ll have to leave your dog outside, Captain. We don’t allow animals in the house under any circumstances.” She gestured, and a boy ran forward. “Yeshi here will see to him.”

  “No need.” Norwood held his hand out, palm facing the dog, and Brutus sat. “Brutus, stay.”

  The mastiff sat and looked up at him, a thick strand of drool dripping from his pendulous jowl.

  “He’ll stay there?” Jieco looked skeptical.

  “Until all Nine Hells freeze over or I call him.” Not the complete truth, but enough. Norwood gestured to the house. “Shall we?”

  “This way, Captain.”

  He followed her into the manor house, leaving the door ajar behind him. If the assassin struck, he wanted to be able to call on Brutus, and despite the mastiff’s brawn, a latched door would easily thwart him.

  So far, so good.

  Their boot heels clicked on polished white marble as they crossed the impressive entrance hall. The Patino crest in burnished brass hung upon one wall. Jieco turned left and led him down a short hallway with four doors along the sides, and a fifth at the end. Norwood tried to maintain a casual posture, wondering if a killer lurked behind one of the doors. Tam and Tango were here somewhere, he just hoped they were close.

  Jieco unlocked the door at the end of the corridor and gestured him inside. The study was bright and cozy at the same time. High windows on two walls let in ample light, and plush chairs in front of the cold hearth looked perfect for relaxing and reading. Unfortunately, Norwood wasn’t here to relax. Just as well, for he could never relax under the eyes of generations of Patinos who stared down at him from their portraits upon the dark-paneled walls.

  Emi Jieco waved toward a bookshelf crowded with ledgers. “There are the books, Captain. I hope you know what you’re looking for.”

  “I do. Thank you for your help.” He nodded toward the corridor. “I don’t want to keep you from your work any longer.”

  “Very well. Please try to put things back where you found them.”

  “I’ll try not to disturb anything, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.” Looking sternly at him, as if afraid that he would wreak havoc on her neatly organized ledgers, she finally left, closing the door behind her.

  Norwood checked his watch. Perfect. Picking a ledger from the shelf at random, he brought it to the huge desk that dominated one corner, facing the center of the room. Two ornate lamps stood atop it for nighttime work, their bases of burnished malachite and gold gleaming in the sunlight. Norwood slid into the comfortable chair and opened the ledger. Something warm and wet nudged his knee from beneath the desk.

  “Good boy,” he whispered, patting the mastiff’s huge head. Close indeed! “Stay. Quiet.”

  Tango settled back down. That he had remained perfectly still beneath the desk was a testament to his superb training. All was ready. The trap was set. Now he had nothing to do but wait.

  The plan was simple. Norwood was the bait, seemingly alone and vulnerable. He wanted to take the assassin alive for questioning, and with the two mastiffs and Tamir close by, he had a chance. He just had to keep the man from using magic to escape. The captain dipped his fingers into his jacket pocket and withdrew the fine golden chain that Woefler had given him. It felt cool and reassuring. He wrapped one end around his hand to keep a good hold on it.

  The hard part would be waiting.

  And not letting him touch me…

  Norwood had no idea what other magic the assassin could wield. He was betting his life that the killer wanted the captain’s death to appear natural, as he had Patino’s. In that case, he’d have to get close enough to touch him. Of course, if he blinked in with a dozen men wielding poisoned blades, Norwood wouldn’t have a chance.

  No, he’ll try the same way he tried before. He’ll use magic. In Norwood’s experience, killers didn’t generally change their methods unless forced to. He knew the man was mortal, as vulnerable as anyone to a dagger or sword. If it came down to life or death, the captain would have no qualms about putting a blade through the assassin’s heart.

  Norwood pretended to skim over the neat columns of numbers, notations, expenditures, and names. It was all a sham, but the killer couldn’t know that. He flipped a page, ears straining for the scuff of a boot on the hardwood floor, an indrawn breath, a rustle of cloth.

  Waiting…

  Norwood strived to stay alert, to listen. He thought to call for blackbrew, but rejected the idea. The assassin could pop in at any moment, and the captain didn’t want a servant in the room when it happened.

  He’s going to come for me. Any moment…

  His eyes blurred over the meaningless numbers and notations, expenditures for supplies, equipment, wages, and a thousand other details that kept the estate running.

  Waiting…

  The sun crept across the carpet as the morning wore on. It was getting difficult to keep his eyes open, and his mind kept drifting off to errant thoughts. If I don’t pay attention, I’ll end up asleep on the desk. He flipped another page.

  A light puff of breeze touched the hairs on the back of his neck, and he reached back to scratch.

  Breeze?

  The windows were closed.

  A flicker of motion reflected in the gleaming chimney of one of the desk lamps; a flutter of crimson.

  Tango growled.

  Norwood lunged up and kicked the chair backward, gratified by the dull thud and the hiss of pain that followed. “Tam!” he bellowed as he twisted around to face his attacker. Too close—a hand blurred by inches from his face, a pearly glow trailing vaporous wisps. Norwood whipped the golden chain at the assassin’s arm, but it merely flicked off the man’s shoulder.

  Damn!

  The assassin kicked the chair aside and lunged, his outstretched hand still glowing. Norwood’s backside bumped up against the desk. Drawing his dagger, he realized with a sinking heart that the short blade couldn’t keep that deadly hand from touching him. He heard Tamir’s yell from the hallway, and knew his sergeant would arrive too late.

  Tango smashed into the back of Norwood’s legs, toppling the captain backward over the desk. The mastiff leapt up from his hiding place, slobbery jaws wide enough to grasp the assassin’s entire head and strong enough to crush it.

  As Norwood landed amidst the shards of the shattered lamps, an inarticulate cry escaped the assassin’s throat. The captain rolled to his feet to see Tango’s massive jaws gripping the cowl of the man’s robe. Cloth tore as they tumbled backward, Tango landing firmly atop. Dagger in one hand and the golden chain in the other, Norwood vaulted over the desk. Behind him, the door burst open, but he couldn’t look back. He had to get the chain around the assassin before he vanished, but there was a huge dog in the way.

  “Tango! Off!”

  Too late… A pearly glow flashed around the enraged canine, and Tango went limp.

  The assassin heaved the dog off and rolled to his feet, the tattered hood of his cloak pulled away to reveal swarthy features and dark, close-cropped hair streaked with gray. He spoke a word that shivered the air, and dark tendrils of magic flowed outward from his hand.

  “Not this time, you bastard!” Norwood flung the chain at the man’s arm. The gold links wrapped around his assailant’s wrist twice, sticking like glue. The dark tendrils faded, and he there he stood. “Now, you son of a—” Norwood dropped his dagger and drew his sword; he needed a longer weapon to keep the lethal magic at bay.

  The assassin jerked his arm, but the enchanted links held fast. The end that Norwood gripp
ed cut into his hand, but he refused to let go. As the tip of Norwood’s sword cleared the scabbard, the assassin spoke again, a single meaningless word.

  Darkness flashed through the room like a sheet of black lightning. Norwood’s heart skipped a beat, and the sword drooped in his nerveless grasp. Ice water filled his veins, despair unlike anything he’d ever felt gripping him. Every dark moment of his life revisited him in the span of a heartbeat: every failure, every heartbreak, every defeat. His knees quaked and his muscles slacked. He heard Tamir cry out, but he was too deafened by his own anguish to understand.

  The assassin jerked his arm away, and the golden chain cut across the back of the Norwood’s hand, wrenched free of his slack grasp. Backing away, the man peeled the chain from his forearm and cast it aside. Once again, vaporous black tendrils formed in his hand and began to spread.

  “No!” Norwood wrenched his mind free from the pit of despair and raised his sword. Behind him, a deep growl sounded.

  Brutus bowled him aside as he launched himself from the top of the desk, jaws wide. The dog plunged right through the swirling darkness, scattering the vaporous magic like smoke on the wind, then crashed into an ornate coatrack in the corner. When the mists cleared, the assassin was gone.

  “Damn it to the Nine Hells!” Norwood turned a wary circle, lest the assassin pop right back in behind him, but the only other person in the room was Tamir. The sergeant looked more like he’d seen a ghost than a killer. With another curse, the captain snapped his sword back into his scabbard.

  “What in the hell was that, sir?” Tamir’s free hand clutched his chest. “That…flash of darkness. It felt like someone grabbed my heart right out of my chest.”

  “I don’t know, Sergeant.” Norwood grimaced at the shattered glass, scratched desk, and the ledger soaked in lamp oil. So much for his promise not to make a mess. “I did, however, get a good look at him.”

  A whine brought him around. Brutus stood, head down, mournfully nosing the still form of Tango.

  “Damn it to hell.” The captain knelt and pressed his fingers into the dog’s warm flesh, but detected no pulse, no breath. Tango had saved his life, without a doubt, but had paid the ultimate price for his loyalty. Brutus whined again and nosed the corpse, then sat down and looked up into Norwood’s face as if asking for him to fix things. The captain scratched the mastiff’s massive head. “I’m sorry, boy.”

  “What now, sir?” Tamir asked.

  Norwood clenched his jaw and tried to think past the lingering despair of the assassin’s magic. Though Tango lay dead, and they had failed to capture the assassin, his trap had actually worked in one respect.

  “This case just got much bigger, Tam.” Norwood bent to retrieve the golden chain, and noticed the blood on the back of his hand where the links had sliced into him. “Our assassin knew exactly where and when to find me. We know one thing for sure now: there’s a spy in the Imperial Palace.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “We’re going to Tsing.”

  “You’re sure, sir?” Tamir worried his lower lip and furrowed his brow.

  “Yes, Sergeant. I’m oath-bound to protect the Noble House of Tsing. That includes the Emperor himself. If there’s a spy in the Imperial Palace controlling that assassin, there’s an threat to His Majesty’s safety. I’ve got to go.” Brutus nosed his hand, and he scratched him behind the ears, trying to offer the poor beast some solace. “Besides, the son of a bitch killed my dog. I’m going to put a sword through him for that, if nothing else.”

  “We’re coming into Farthane,” Lad said as they passed the sign post. “You wanted to stop?”

  Mya looked up from her book. She’d been quiet, which wasn’t unusual, but her nervousness from this morning seemed to have subsided. “Yes. Farthane’s one of Patino’s estates. I sent Hunters to Willamshire and Mountainview, but when you decided to go to Tsing early, I figured we might as well stop on the way and ask some questions.”

  He looked at her with furrowed brow. “It’s just a plantation. Are they likely to know anything?”

  “Maybe not, but there’s no harm in asking around.” She gave him an exasperated look that he’d learned to read long ago. “You did tell me to look everywhere. If Kiesha got out of Twailin, she might have come here.”

  “Good point.” Lad peered out the carriage window as they topped a low hill. “It’s evidently a fair-sized village.” Ahead in the vale were a number of small buildings, homes, a granary, and a mill, aside from the way-inn. The manor house stood upon a nearby hill, large and white, with expansive green swards, planted fields, and stone-fenced pastures dotted with white flecks of sheep.

  “Good.” She put down her book. “The more people, the less likely we are to draw attention.”

  Lad rapped the roof of the carriage with the handle of his walking stick. “Stop at the inn for lunch.”

  “Aye, sir!” the driver called down.

  As the carriage rolled into Farthane village, Lad was reminded of the first village he’d ever seen, the hamlet of Thistledown. He cast his mind back, remembering how ignorant he had been of the vagaries of human interactions. He hadn’t even known what money was, let alone the need of it to pay for things like food. It was shortly after that first disastrous encounter with civilization that he met Mya. She had ridden up on a tall gelding and offered him a ride to Twailin, but his trained suspicion had told him to refuse.

  The image of her on her horse came to mind as if it had been yesterday. Her sweat-damped shirt had been half open, exposing the swell of her high breasts as she leaned down to talk to him. At the time he hadn’t understood, but now it seemed obvious what she’d been trying to do. Even then, she’d been using enticement to get what she wanted.

  Is she still trying to do that? He recalled her tattoo-clad back and legs as she wound them in black cloth. She could have waited until he was out of the room to dress, but hadn’t. Had she done that on purpose? Was she trying to seduce him? If so, why? A flutter in the pit of his stomach betrayed his body’s undeniable response to the memory, but he ignored it.

  The way-inn hove into view as the carriage passed the mill. The high, tiled roof fairly glowed in the midday sun. In the courtyard, figures bustled about tending horses and wagons, and trying to hitch a team of recalcitrant mules to a huge wain mounded with cargo.

  Their driver slowed to allow a coach approaching from the opposite direction to pull into the drive. As the coach turned, Lad saw a familiar coat of arms emblazoned on the door. The coach stopped, and a massive dog hopped out, followed by a broad-shouldered man in uniform. Recognition hit Lad like a hammer blow.

  Norwood!

  “Drive on!” He didn’t think Norwood could identify him, but he wasn’t about to take the risk. Lad thumped the roof of the carriage with his cane, and shouted again. “Drive on! They’re too busy. We’ll stop at the next village.”

  “Aye, sir!” The whip cracked, and the carriage surged forward.

  “Lad, what—”

  “Look at the coach!” He leaned back in the seat, wary of curious eyes. “Familiar?”

  Mya glanced out. “Shit!” She, too, leaned back out of view. There was no point in taking chances; Mya was well known in certain areas of Twailin. “He must be investigating Patino.”

  That made sense. The captain had weeks to wait for an answer from Tsing, just like Lad did, so he was out asking questions, looking for motives, doing his job.

  “Rotten luck that he’s right where we wanted to stop.” He glanced back. “Maybe he knows something we don’t.”

  “I can’t imagine he tells you everything.”

  “What?”

  “Norwood is your informant, isn’t he?” The corner of her mouth twitched. He’d seen that enough to know she was suppressing amusement. Lad was not amused.

  “Yes, he is. When did you figure that out?”

  She shrugged. “When I had people watching Norwood’s house, one of them noticed the open attic vent. They hadn’t seen a thing, and I d
on’t know anyone else who could have done that, so I assumed you visited him. When you told us about Patino’s murder, I assumed you had visited him again. It’s quite a risk.”

  “Not really.” It piqued Lad that she had figured him out, and he wasn’t about to justify his actions to her. “Have you told any of the other masters?”

  “Of course not!”

  Lad watched her for tells, and saw none. The carriage rumbled on for a few long minutes before Mya spoke again.

  “You really should tell the other masters that Norwood was the assassin’s target. It changes things.”

  “Not that much. I don’t want anyone to know. Just like Hensen’s contract to protect us. If they make the connection, they might think it…treasonous.”

  “As long as you’re not selling out the guild, I don’t see why they would.” She cocked an eyebrow. “You’re not, are you?”

  He glared at her. “No.”

  “Good.” Mya opened her book. “So, Norwood’s hunting Patino’s killer, too. That could complicate things.”

  “Yes.” Lad gazed out the window, wondering what he would do if Norwood found Kiesha before he did. “Yes, it could.”

  Chapter XVIII

  The carriage rumbled up yet another hill, and Lad sighed. Thoroughly sick of traveling, he wanted nothing more than to arrive in Tsing.

  Until recently, the ever-changing scenery had helped to capture his attention. The rolling pastures around Farthane had given way to the sweeping hills of lake country, then a deep forest of old-growth oaks so draped with moss that they looked like hoary gray giants. Then they’d climbed the torturously steep Forendell Pass, through craggy mountains and hidden vales, where the way-inns were high-walled and fortified against marauding bands of ogres. Though none could say when the last attack had occurred, right now, Lad would have welcomed such a distraction.