Weapon of Fear

by Chris A. Jackson

  He could think of only one rebuttal. “I will be emperor of this realm.”

  “I know that, Milord Prince, but until you are, the laws must be upheld and enforced as they‘re written. Simply telling the commoners that they suddenly have rights doesn’t make it so. Nobles may still discipline their servants as they see fit, and exact retribution from any commoner for impugnment as was decreed by your father. It is the law.”

  “The law will change,” Arbuckle fumed.

  “Not yet, I’m afraid, Milord Prince.” Graving folded his thick arms over his thicker torso.

  If I could wring a concession from him... Arbuckle swallowed his pride. “Of course you’re right, Chief Magistrate Graving, but our current situation is dire. I cannot renege upon my pledge to the commoners. The result would be disastrous. Until my coronation, if you and the other magistrates would take into account that circumstances will change, and compensate in your judgements…”

  The chief magistrate was already shaking his head. “Milord Prince, how would it look if we, the magistrates charged with upholding the law, bypassed its tenets in favor of one noble’s whim. I’m afraid that, for the time being, things must remain as they are.”

  Arbuckle managed a tight smile as he rose to his feet. “We will speak of this again, Chief Magistrate Graving.”

  “As your lordship commands.” Graving bowed formally, and smiles spread through the crowd of nobles.

  Arbuckle had been outmaneuvered in his first battle for a more-just empire. Despondent, he returned to his sitting room. Pushing aside the paperwork that awaited him, he went to his bookshelf and searched the titles for those he needed.

  “Milord Prince, may I be of assistance?”

  Arbuckle turned to see Tennison standing with his appointment book. “What’s my schedule for today? I need to study.”

  “You have several hours free, milord.” He tapped the book in his arms. “More if you wish it.”

  “Good. I need several volumes from the library. Books detailing every statute my father instituted, interregnal jurisprudence, anything you can think of.

  “I’ll summon the palace librarian, milord.” Tennison left, and Arbuckle got to work.

  Two hours later, with a pile of open volumes covering his desk and a sheaf of notes, the crown prince felt like he was drowning in quicksand. I tipped my hand before I knew all the cards… They’re going to force me to renege, and the commoners will revolt. I’ll be forced to institute martial law and call in the military…just as they want me to do.

  “Blast it!” He slammed a book closed and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his burning eyes.

  A scratch to his right caught his ear, and he opened his eyes to see his scribe, Verul, sitting with his leger on his lap. The notion of his petulant outburst being recorded for posterity almost made him laugh.

  “Gods of Light, Verul, tell me you didn’t record that!”

  The scribe looked up startled, but Arbuckle’s smile took the sting out of the outburst. “Yes, milord, I did.” His lips twitched, and his pen scratched. “Every word. Even that.”

  The notion brought a memory of their conversation after his speech in the plaza. “Verul, did you get that transcription of your notes from yesterday? I could use a reminder of what I’m working for.”

  “Of course, Milord Prince.” Verul hurried out and returned in moments bearing a massive leather-bound tome. “Here you are.” He opened it on the desk and turned to the proper page.

  Arbuckle read, reliving his words to the crowd in the plaza, annotated with their delighted reactions. When he’d finished, however, he felt vaguely discomforted. The archive didn’t read quite as he remembered. Of course, he’d been caught up in the excitement, so perhaps his memories weren’t to be trusted.

  He flipped back a few pages and read. Still, he felt something wasn’t quite right. Back again, until once more, he was in his father’s torture chamber. Arbuckle hadn’t even realized that Verul had accompanied him into that hell hole, yet there it was, recorded in precise horrifying detail. But…

  “Verul!”

  “Yes, Milord Prince?” The scribe was at his side in a moment, book and pen at the ready.

  “You recorded the night in the dungeons, right?”

  “Yes, milord.”

  “And you still have your original shorthand notes there?” He pointed to the ledger in the scribe’s hands.

  “Yes.”

  “Read me what you have after I...”—Arbuckle swallowed hard—“after I was ill.”

  The scribe flipped back several pages of his book and began reading. “Commander Ithross: Milord Prince, you must go. Crown Prince Arbuckle: No. Your cloak, Sir Fineal. Aside: Crown prince lays Fineal’s cloak over the body of the dead woman. Crown Prince Arbuckle: Master Corvecosi, take care of her. Master Corvecosi: As you wish, Milord Prince. I’ll also see that your father’s body is properly attend—. Crown Prince Arbuckle: No. Divest him of any accoutrements of his former office, then burn his corpse and cast the ashes down the nearest cesspit.”

  “Enough!” Arbuckle bit back his temper. “Now, this is how the archive reads. Ithross: Milord Prince, you must go. Crown Prince Arbuckle: No. Your cloak, Sir Fineal. Aside: Crown prince lays cloak over the body of the emperor. Crown Prince Arbuckle: Master Corvecosi, take care of him. Master Corvecosi: As you wish, Milord Prince. I’ll also see that the spy’s body is properly attended to. Crown Prince Arbuckle: No. Burn the corpse and cast the ashes down the nearest cesspit.”

  “I…I don’t understand.” Verul looked panicked.

  “Your version rings truer than the archived version.” Arbuckle gritted his teeth. “Who is in charge of transcribing your notes?”

  “Imperial Archivist Kelnik oversees all the archives. Not only the transcripts, but all governmental papers, court documents, and legal proceedings.”

  “Tennison, send for the imperial archivist.”

  While he waited, Arbuckle and compared several more transcribed sections with the originals. Many matched word for word, but some transcripts had been altered to show the emperor—or Arbuckle, in the newer transcripts—in a favorable light.

  Soon enough, Tennison opened the door to admit a robed figure, a pale face beneath a shock of white hair, spectacles perched on a long, thin nose. The man’s back was bent from years hunched over a desk, but he looked no older than sixty.

  “Master Kelnik, I don’t believe we’ve ever met.”

  “No, Milord Prince, we have not, though I have documented your life upon many occasions.” Kelnik smiled and bowed.

  The notion chilled Arbuckle’s bones. My life… “How long have you been Imperial Archivist, and what exactly are your duties?”

  “It’s been thirty years since your father appointed me. All the records of the realm are my responsibility: making fair copies, cataloging, that sort of thing.”

  Arbuckle raised his eyebrows. “That’s a lot of paperwork. Surely you have help.”

  Kelnik chuckled. “I do, milord, four junior archivists, but the ultimate responsibility is mine.”

  “And part of that responsibility is to ensure that the daily transcriptions are accurate?”

  “Of course, milord.”

  “And if I were to tell you that they are not, in fact, accurate?”

  For the first time, Kelnik’s smile faltered. “I would beg to differ, milord. They are accurate.”

  “Are they now?” Arbuckle frowned and pointed to the two books, Verul’s ledger and the archival volume. “Master Kelnik, do you know how to read shorthand?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Please read and compare the open pages.”

  Kelnik peered intently at the books. After a couple of minutes, he stood and smiled proudly. “Excellent work, that. Transcribed by TSU,”—he pointed a crooked finger at a tiny notation in the lower right-hand corner of the archive page—“Tamira Soveal Ursin. I trained her myself.”

  Arbuckle stared in shock at the man’s curious at
titude. “Explain to me why there’s a discrepancy between the two versions.”

  “Oh, we don’t consider that a discrepancy, Milord Prince. We merely clean up the transcript. As you well know, the archive is the official record of an emperor’s reign maintained for posterity. You’ll find no disparagement to His Majesty within. And be assured, we’ll take the same care of the records for your reign!”

  “Why in the names of all the gods would you do that?” Arbuckle couldn’t hold his temper in check.

  Now it was Kelnik’s turn to look bewildered and clearly frightened. “But…but…that’s the way we’ve always done it! I was trained thus. Your father himself commended me on a job well done!”

  “And the original notes?”

  “Destroyed once they’re fully transcribed, milord. Why would we keep them?”

  Arbuckle fumed, remembering an old adage: History is written by the winners. Those words rang horrifyingly true. Not during my reign!

  “Master Kelnik, I’m afraid you are unwittingly complicit in something that is tantamount to treason.”

  “Treason?” The man stumbled back a step. “Milord, I never—”

  Arbuckle raised a hand for silence, though Verul’s pen continued to scratch along. At least those words would be archived accurately.

  “You were instructed by my father to alter records, and you did as you were ordered. I hold no fault on you for this, and absolve you of any wrongdoing, but this practice must stop!” He stood and went to his wall of bookshelves, fingering the leather-bound spines. “If we don’t record every word accurately and honestly, no future historian can learn from our mistakes.” He picked out a volume of recent lore, barely thirty years old, and held it out for the archivist to see. “Your actions, on the orders of my father, have made this a lie.” He dropped the book to the floor.

  Kelnik stared down at the book in horror. “Milord, I…” He dropped to his knees, reaching out to touch the fallen tome, and looked up, his eyes swimming with tears. “My life’s work, milord! It cannot be all lies.”

  “Perhaps not, but without the original notes, we can’t discern truth from fiction.”

  “I’m…sorry, milord.” He bowed his head, tears darkening the leather cover of the book he held.

  “I can’t hold you responsible, but I also can’t hold you in my service any longer. I’m afraid I can’t trust you to truthfully record my reign, Master Kelnik.” Arbuckle felt horrible, but knew he was right. A lifetime of training could not be broken.

  “Let me fix it!” Kelnik looked up, his face streaked with misery. “Let me correct it!”

  “Trade one fiction for another?” Arbuckle shook his head. “No. No, we’ll append the records with notes indicating their questionable accuracy. When that’s done, you will be dismissed from imperial service with your full pension. I’m sorry, Master Kelnik, but I can’t trust you.”

  “I understand, milord.” Kelnik struggled to his feet and bowed.

  Once Tennison had shuffled the wretched archivist from the room, Arbuckle turned to his scribe. “Verul, would you be interested in his position?”

  “I… “ Verul stared at him, his eyes as round as eggs. “With all due respect, Milord Prince, I’d rather stay at your side. Someone’s got to make sure your words are recorded accurately.”

  Arbuckle smiled. He liked this man. “I’ll hold you to that, Verul. Mine with be an open, honest reign. See to Master Kelnik’s replacement, and the notations I mentioned.” He pointed to the shorthand ledger in Verul’s hand. “And the original notes are to be kept from now on. Nothing is to be destroyed. Make sure the junior archivists are retrained properly. I’m just going to be reading for the next few hours, so why don’t you go and do that now, before there’s something important to record. You can send up an assistant if you’re going to be very long.”

  “At once, milord!” Verul hurried out.

  The crown prince turned back to his books, looking on the volumes littering his desk in a new light. Truth or fiction? he wondered. The law, at least, was clear, though it seemed to be against him. He had promised the common people of Tsing justice.

  I’ll be damned before I let the law make me a liar.

  Hoseph materialized in Lady T’s sitting room and found himself staring down the shaft of a crossbow bolt once again. He felt a brief wave of dizziness, and passed it off as eye strain from focusing on the bolt’s needle-sharp head quivering mere inches from his face.

  “Put that down!”

  The lady of the house clenched her jaw and lowered the crossbow. ““Damn it, Hoseph! You need to stop appearing unannounced. I’ve already had one heart-stopping surprise visitor today.”

  Her obvious discomfort ignited his curiosity. “Who might that have been?”

  “Mya.” She put down the crossbow and headed for her dressing room.

  He followed her, his mind reeling. “And you let her leave alive?”

  “I didn’t have a choice. She wears the Grandmaster’s ring. She told me she was taking over the guild.” She pulled a dress down from the rack and glared at it.

  “She took it for herself?” That surprised him. He would have thought Lad would claim the ring as he had the Twailin guildmaster’s. “What about Lad?”

  “She told me that she killed him.” Lady T put the dress back and picked another, turning to hold it up before her as she looked into the full-length mirror. “She said she deserved it more than he did.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. She stepped between Lad and the Grandmaster’s blade, risked her life for him. Why would she kill him?”

  “With the Grandmaster’s ring up for grabs?” She looked at him in the mirror, one eyebrow arched.

  Mya was certainly ambitious, of that there was no doubt. Hoseph had originally suggested appointing Mya as Twailin guildmaster based on reports of her quick mind and leadership qualities. Still, something didn’t make sense. If Mya killed Lad before he had a chance to don the ring, why not simply leave the body there? She might be strong, but Norwood was in no condition to walk, and she couldn’t have carried the bodies of two grown men—one dead, one incapacitated—out the passage. Unless she didn’t.

  “Have you checked the passage into the palace dungeons?” Only someone with a guildmaster’s ring could access the tunnel leading from the guild-owned wine shop into the dungeon.

  Lady T wrinkled her brow. “No. Why?”

  “I don’t know if I believe Mya. She might be hiding Lad somewhere.” There were still too many unanswered questions. “You should check the passage for any sign of them. Now, why did she come here?”

  “I told you: to tell me she was taking over as Grandmaster.” Picking out a green gown, she held it up before her and looked in the mirror.

  “How does she propose to manage a takeover without—” He looked at Lady T anew. “She tried to recruit you.”

  “She gave me two options: help her or die.” Lady T returned the green gown to the rack and picked out a red one.

  “And what was your answer?” Hoseph surreptitiously shifted his gaze. Lady T’s crossbow lay several paces away. He didn’t doubt that he could send her soul to Demia before she could reach the weapon, but she was an assassin. She might have a half-dozen lethal implements hidden within reach.

  “Do I look dead?” Lady T stood in front of the mirror, but she watched him in the reflection. “If I had denied her, she would have killed me and recruited one of my masters, and there goes your only ally. I think the question rightfully is: what are you going to do about her?”

  “Kill her, of course, but I have to find her first. Did you have her followed?”

  Lady T barked a sardonic laugh. “Send assassins to follow a Master Hunter wearing the Grandmaster’s ring? I may as well slit their throats and dump them in the river myself.”

  She had a point. He’d seen Mya fight. “Play along with her for now and we’ll set her up for the kill. We’ve got bigger problems to deal with first. What in the Nine Hells happened yes
terday? I came out this morning to smoke thick enough to choke on, rumors of uprisings, and commoners strutting the streets as if they owned them.”

  Eyes narrowing, Lady T said curiously, “You must sleep in a tomb to not have heard the ruckus. They’re calling it the Night of Flame. All instigated on by dear Crown Prince Arbuckle.”

  “What?”

  Hoseph listened with growing astonishment as the guildmaster related the tale of the heir’s speech to the unwashed masses, and the bonfire in the Imperial Plaza that started a night of riots. Evidently, Arbuckle was not as weak-willed as they’d thought.

  “And just before you arrived, I received word that Arbuckle reprimanded the senior nobles when they insisted he institute martial law to control the violence. He told them he intends to change the laws to implement equal justice for all, nobles and commoners alike!”

  “He is a fool!”

  “Well, he got put in his place by Magistrate Graving. He can’t change any laws until he wears the crown.” She shrugged out of her night dress and started donning the red gown. “Not without backing from two thirds of the nobility.”

  Hoseph’s anger warmed his face. “We have to make sure he doesn’t get it.”

  “It’s not likely he will. Not with Graving waving the law in his face.” She began lacing the gown, her arms bent behind her back like a contortionist.

  “We have to make sure.” Hoseph paced the small space, deep in thought. On the third turn, the seed of a plan began to germinate in his mind. By the fifth, details were emerging like budding spring blossoms. “We can’t let the coronation proceed. We’ve got to have him killed before he’s emperor.”

  “Duke Tessifus is next in line for the throne.”

  “Yes, and he’s got a family.” Hoseph’s plan burst into full bloom. “He can be pressured. Take his sons and we’ll have him in the palm of our hand. He’ll jump exactly as high as we want him to.”

  “I suggest we wait until after Arbuckle is dead.” Finally dressed, Lady T sat and picked out a pair of shoes. She pressed a tab in the side of one, and a thin blade popped out from the toe, proving Hoseph right in his assessment of weapon accessibility. “First things first.”