Weapon of Fear

by Chris A. Jackson

  “No, I’m afraid he is not.” Arbuckle took a steadying breath, letting it out slowly. “I’ve received information that states plainly that the archmage has been recruited by a conspiracy of nobles and magistrates to end my life.”

  “That’s…” Keyfur’s cup trembled in his hand until blackbrew slopped over the side. He cupped his hand beneath it to catch the dribble, then put the cup down. “Pardon me, milord, but this is unprecedented. I…don’t know what to say.”

  “Say that you’re loyal to both the empire and me, and that you can keep me alive.” Arbuckle fixed his gaze upon the wizard, watching for any sign of evasion.

  “On the first two points, milord, let me assure you that I am your loyal servant.” Keyfur bowed carefully, glancing sidelong at the stern guards, apparently cognizant of the position he was in. “As to the last, I’m unsure if I or any other wizard in the Imperial Retinue could oppose Archmage Duveau.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he is archmage, milord.” Keyfur shrugged as if that explained everything, but everyone in the room just stared at him blankly. “The entire retinue united might be able to stand against him, but individually…”

  “I can’t trust the entire retinue, Master Keyfur. I’m trusting you. Now tell me why Duveau is so invulnerable.”

  “Not invulnerable, milord, but he has earned his position as archmage. Duveau is learned in many spheres of magic, and is more proficient in most than any other among the retinue, perhaps in the empire.”

  “Yes, but I don’t know what he’s capable of.” Arbuckle pursed his lips. “Can he bring the whole palace down on my head, stop my heart with a wave of his hand?”

  “He could not, milord. He cannot manipulate dwarf-wrought stonework, and is not versed in death-magic. That I do know. He’s also not immune to the effects of his own magic.” Keyfur looked around the room as if unsure how much he should say.

  “Please be frank, Master Keyfur. I trust everyone in this room with my life. We need to know what we’re up against.”

  “Very well. His greatest prowess is in the manipulation of earth-based elements.” He gestured toward the ceiling, the knights, the window. “Stone, metal, even glass, which is, after all, nothing but fused sand, he can bend to his will. He could easily fend off a sword, but he would have to know the stroke was coming. If a rock fell from a parapet and he didn’t see it, its impact would kill him.”

  “Well, that’s good news,” Sir Calvert said.

  “Forgive me, Sir Knight, but it is not good.” Keyfur gestured at the armor clad warrior. “Duveau could easily wad your armor into a ball…with you inside it.” He turned back to the prince. “And do the same with any metal-clad guard or warrior.”

  “Bloody hells…” Sir Calvert muttered, then nodded apologetically to Arbuckle. “Pardon, milord.”

  “No, I want everyone here to speak freely. Please, Master Keyfur. What else?”

  “Most of the palace itself is dwarf-wrought, and therefore beyond his skill to manipulate. He’s less apt with magic that manipulates the other elements; fire water, air, life, and death.”

  “Death is an element?” Ithross looked aghast.

  “It is, but necromancy has been banned in the Empire of Tsing for centuries, Captain, and rightly so. Duveau will not be raising armies of undead to assail us. He’s also not as learned as some of us in the more esoteric disciplines of magic. I can bend light and create some pretty illusions, for instance, that he can’t penetrate. Mistress Ellis is more proficient with runemagic. However, none of the retinue would last long in a duel against Duveau, I’m afraid.” Keyfur looked around at the crowd. “He is…formidable.”

  “What might we use against him?”

  “As I said, metal weapons would likely not reach him if he was aware of the attack.” Keyfur furrowed his brow as the knights and guards traded worried glances. “Fire can certainly burn him. Bone, wood, ivory, and horn are likely materials for more useful weapons and armor.”

  “The swordmasters of the far west wear wicker armor, milord,” Ithross said.

  “Yes, and it’s no match for a decent weapon,” Sir Calvert countered with a frown.

  “Your pardon, milord, but if Duveau has been named as an assassin, why not send him away?” Keyfur lifted his abandoned cup of blackbrew and downed it at a single swallow. “Once outside the palace, even he can’t breach its magical barriers.”

  “Even though he’s the one who put those barriers in place?”

  “Yes, milord. A door or wall is a barrier, after all, even to the one who built it.”

  “Well, that’s something.” Arbuckle chewed his lip and resumed pacing. “In answer to your question, I have no actual evidence against him or the conspirators save a scrap of paper from an unknown source. Though I doubt it, this could be an elaborate fabrication to discredit me or lower my defenses. If I have Duveau or the other conspirators arrested or expelled without charges or evidence, there would be repercussions.”

  “I see.” The wizard looked thoughtful. “And do you know when the attack will occur?”

  “The note said that he would strike before I’m crowned emperor.”

  “That leaves us little time to plan.” Keyfur nodded. “You must wait for him to make his attempt, then thwart him.”

  “Or find hard evidence of this plot.”

  “That’s not likely, milord. Duveau is an intelligent man. If he’s going to strike, there’ll be no warning.” The wizard’s eyebrows rose. “Which begs the question of how he plans to accomplish the task and escape the palace. You’re rarely without company, milord. There would be witnesses.”

  “Well, I won’t be without guards even when I sleep, I’ll tell you that!” Arbuckle thought of his midnight visitors and shuddered.

  “Could he make it look like an accident, or frame someone else?” Ithross asked.

  “That’s entirely possible.” Keyfur nodded. “Yes, if it appeared as if someone else committed the crime, he would remain blameless.”

  “But how do I keep him from killing me if we don’t know when or how he’ll strike?”

  “Keep some guards close who wear no metal, milord, but they must not appear unusual in any way. Also, I should remain at your side whenever possible.” Keyfur nodded to Ithross. “I can tell your guard captain what to look for if Duveau should attempt to strike using a doppelganger or cause a distraction with a simulacrum.”

  “You mean a disguise?” Ithross asked.

  “A magical disguise, yes. Duveau’s aren’t as good as mine, but they are convincing.”

  “But you can’t stay by my side constantly without tipping our hand that we know something.”

  “Your pardon, milord, but I can.” Keyfur smiled and withdrew a tiny crystal from a pocket. “With your permission, milord, I’ll demonstrate.”

  Arbuckle tensed, and Ithross stepped between him and the wizard. At the captain’s hand signal, several more guards formed around the prince.

  “I want to see this, Captain.” He had to trust someone. “Proceed, Master Keyfur.”

  “Thank you, milord.” Keyfur pressed the crystal to the center of his forehead, and uttered a phrase that seemed to evaporate in the air before the mind could grasp its meaning.

  Keyfur vanished.

  Everyone in the room stirred uncomfortably.

  “I’m still present, milord, and standing in the same place. I can maintain this as long as I concentrate on the spell. If anything happens to me, or I have to cast another spell, the bending of light that renders me invisible will fail.”

  “I understand.” Arbuckle nodded, and the mage suddenly reappeared.

  “A doppelganger might look like someone you know, but be Duveau. A simulacrum is a construct that can act like a person, but won’t stand up to close scrutiny. They can’t speak, have no bodily functions like sweat, tears, or body odor, and they don’t bleed.” Keyfur pursed his lips. “I can’t best Duveau alone, but I should be able to hold off his magic for a time. A mi
nute, maybe two, at most. I might surprise him with a trick or two long enough for someone else to kill him, but not while I’m protecting you.”

  “We’ll have wooden armor and bone weapons made, milord.” Ithross said. “Archers with bone tipped arrows will ward you whenever possible.”

  “A fine idea, but it will take time to attire the entire knighthood in wood and horn.” Calvert still sounded skeptical. “And it’ll cause rumors. Squires will talk.”

  “We begin with those of us close to the prince, then anyone else in close proximity, but only those we trust absolutely. Word mustn’t get out that we’re doing this.” Ithross looked grim. “And we must limit your exposure, milord.”

  Arbuckle nodded, and looked down at the rings on his fingers, then fingered the golden circle on his brow. “By the Nine Hells, I’m wearing enough metal right now to sink a skiff.”

  The knights chuckled nervously, but Arbuckle’s valet, Baris, stepped forward and bowed. “Pardon me, milord, but you needn’t if you don’t wish to.”

  “What?” Arbuckle looked to Baris questioningly. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you needn’t wear metal, milord. There are paste mock-ups for display. Your grandfather had them made after the theft of a jewel from his crown.”

  Arbuckle knew the story; there were few who didn’t. “Well, I suppose that would fool a casual glance, but I can hardly wear them at court.”

  “You could, milord, and nobody’d be the wiser. They’re quite convincing. Your father used to wear the paste crown for formal occasions because it’s so much lighter than the real one.”

  “He did?” Arbuckle tried—and failed—to picture his tyrant father wearing a paste crown. He had never suspected.

  “Yes, milord.”

  “That solves part of the problem, but hardly the rest.” Sir Calvert rapped his metal-clad knuckles against the breastplate of his armor.

  “Is there no way to neutralize Duveau’s magic?” Arbuckle asked.

  “None that I know of, milord.” Keyfur shrugged helplessly.

  “Wonderful.” Arbuckle resumed pacing, chewing his lip and wracking his brain for some idea that might save his life. “We must all try to think of some way to thwart Duveau. There’s more of concern here than my life. There is an empire at stake, ladies and gentlemen.”

  Hoseph woke to the cloying taste of old blood and a persistent ache between his temples. That he woke at all came as a cold comfort. He blinked eyes gummy with sleep. The lamp had burned low, revealing only dim shapes. Nausea threatened as he tried to rise, but he swallowed it down. He worked his tongue around his mouth and found no broken teeth, though he must have bitten his tongue or cheek when he fell. Demia’s grace had healed his wounds as he slept, but he was still sore and his head ached, either from the trauma of his wounds or his use of the talisman.

  What time…no, what day is it?

  Forcing himself up, he paused on hands and knees to allow the dizziness and nausea to ease, then stood. Leaning on the desk for support, he turned up the lamp. The amount of dried blood on the floor, chair, and his ruined robes explained his weakness. His failure, however, weighed even more heavily upon him than the aftermath of his injuries. Mya had slipped his grasp. Once again, a task he had thought straightforward had turned out to be more than he had anticipated. This time, he’d nearly lost his life as a consequence.

  You’re no assassin… Forcing himself to realize that simple truth could only aid his cause. There was no shame in admitting defeat in the face of a competent adversary. Mya had cleverly surrounded herself with crude but effective defenses. He had neutralized one child defender, not expecting a second one wielding a club. Fortunately, Hoseph had other resources he could draw upon to deal with her precautions.

  He stripped out of his blood-crusted garments and poured water into the basin, then scrubbed himself thoroughly. The cool water washed away the scabbed blood to reveal a livid pink scar on his hip. The wound was healed, but Demia had left him a reminder of his failure. Good…I won’t underestimate my adversary again.

  After toweling dry and bundling the bloody clothing to be discarded later, he knelt on his bedroll to shave. His hands shook enough with his lingering fatigue to nick his scalp a few times, but he took that small pain as another reminder of his failure. Finished, he donned a new robe, sat on the floor, and recited his morning prayers, giving thanks to the Keeper of the Slain for his gifts, for every beat of his heart, and for the solace he knew he would receive when it beat no more. A cool calm spread through him.

  He ate a meager meal of bread, cheese, and hard sausage, washing down with water. While he ate, he thought of his next step. When he stood once again, his knees barely trembled, though his head still throbbed. Was that also a reminder?

  Hoseph withdrew the silver skull from his sleeve and gazed into its deep black eyes. Demia’s gift stared back at him without judgment. His prayers had brought comfort; how could the use of Demia’s gift bring such discomfort? He felt as if he was missing something important. He couldn’t deny that his headaches and fatigue were getting worse. Demia would not harm her disciples, but she might remind them of their failures, or punish if one misused her blessings. Was Demia displeased with him?

  The Keeper of the Slain cares not for the machinations of kings, queens, wizards, or commoners. The old mantra brought comfort. Though his hip still ached, and his head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, his injuries had been healed by his goddess’ grace. He was still one with the Demia, and his use of the talisman was necessary.

  Hoseph invoked it once again and felt the mists devour his physical form, sensed the swirling nothingness of the Sphere around him. He took solace in the brief abeyance of his nagging aches and pains before reluctantly continuing on to his destination. Lady T’s sitting room coalesced around him. Midmorning light streamed through the windows, and he realized that he’d slept late.

  Lady T looked up from a sheaf of papers. She’d apparently become used to his frequent comings and goings, for she didn’t even start. “You’re as pale as death warmed over. Did something frighten you terribly?”

  “No!” Hoseph bristled. “I found Mya’s refuge. However, her defenses are considerable, and I was injured.”

  One immaculate eyebrow arched. “Is she…”

  “As far as I know, she’s alive.”

  “You mean you missed.” The guildmaster’s lips pressed together in a hard line. “You said you could kill her, so I helped you find her, and you missed!”

  “I was attacked and had to flee.” Hoseph said it matter-of-factly, as if the memory of being bested by a child and a common assassin wasn’t humiliating. “I need you to assign some Hunters to track her. After last night, she’ll probably move her base of operations, and I need to know where she goes. Also, contract some mercenaries outside of the guild. She’ll be wary, and I’ll need people who can actually raise a hand against her. The time for subtlety is over. She’s already brought at least one assassin up from Twailin. She’s marshaling her forces.”

  “No.” Lady T returned her attention to her papers.

  “What?”

  “I’ve told you, I’m not going to assign any member of the guild to spy on Mya. She’s a skilled Hunter, and likely to spot anyone following her. She’ll track them back to the guild, and I’ll be implicated. She knows where I live and would kill me. I’ll not allow your ineptitude to cost me my life.” Lady T scratched a signature on a paper and flipped it onto another pile. “If you want to contract someone outside the guild to kill her, you’ll do so without my help or knowledge. I can recommend someone reliable and supply funds, but you will not use my name.”

  Hoseph seethed, but could hardly refute her logic. “That will suffice. But time is of the essence.”

  “Here.” She scrawled something on a blank sheet and flipped it across the desk. “Speak to a man named Dagel.” She opened a drawer and withdrew a small leather pouch. It jingled when she dropped it atop the paper.

&n
bsp; Hoseph tucked the heavy pouch in his pocket and glanced at the paper. The address was in the Wharf District. He wasn’t familiar with the exact location, but knew someplace close enough that he wouldn’t have to walk far.

  Lady T flicked her pen between her fingers, clicking it annoyingly against the desk top. “I wish you’d forget about Mya. We’ve ignored her this long; a little longer won’t matter.”

  “It will if she thwarts another assassination attempt.”

  “She can’t get into the palace, and even if she could, Mya couldn’t stand against the archmage. The coronation is in three days. When is Duveau going to fulfill his end of the bargain?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but he’ll do it before Arbuckle is crowned.”

  “And if he betrays us?”

  “He won’t. I have something he wants very badly.”

  The guildmaster cocked her head. “What did you offer to induce an archmage to commit regicide?”

  “It’s not something you need to know.”

  Lady T pouted prettily, then flicked her pen again. “Fine. Keep your little secret, but I think—”

  Hoseph didn’t stay to hear the lady’s thoughts. He invoked his talisman and faded into the Sphere of Shadow. He had to hire some mercenaries.

  Mya rubbed her eyes and tried to think. The hammers seemed to be pounding within her head. It didn’t help that she hadn’t slept well, even with two of her urchins watching over her. Thoughts and worries scurried around her mind like a nest of rats, denying her rest.

  Tiny dead…

  Hoseph knows where we live…

  Crown Prince Arbuckle…

  Lady T…

  They’re beautiful…

  Dee’s comment befuddled her more than anything else. She knew how to respond to a threat to her safety, an insult or warning, but Dee’s compliment had completely blindsided her. She’d always thought her tattoos made her a monster, and he thought they were beautiful? She didn’t know how to handle that.

  Mya shuddered. She’d spend a lifetime protecting her secrets, keeping herself apart to stay safe. So, why did you explain your tattoos to him? Why did you show him? She didn’t know, but those questions and a hundred more wouldn’t let her rest. Finally, with the first light of dawn, she’d risen, dressed, and begun fortifying their ridiculously vulnerable fortress. The urchins had pitched right in, working as if their lives depended upon it. Which, of course, they did.