The Copper Assassin

by Madolyn Rogers

  Luckily no one was watching him. Behind him, Morbid’s warriors stared at the Warlord, open-mouthed, their grip on their weapons gone slack. To his sides, the Fence lords had all turned to see her. In this first moment of their shock, the Warlord must be gauging the reactions of her Fence to her sudden return from the dead. Gorgo wondered if she saw the same things he did.

  M’Chay was unsurprised, of course, smiling placidly. Ciano kept her expression controlled, but her body relaxed perceptibly, and her dark eyes mellowed to green. Jonlan looked merely fascinated, his eyes wide and sparkling. Wormlight seemed almost chagrined, her eyes focused inward. Gorgo guessed she felt a fool for having been taken in, and was reviewing what signs she might have missed. Mayden was the most difficult to read. The catch of his breath and slight sag of his shoulders bespoke disappointment, but his dark eyes warmed with genuine pleasure.

  Morbid let her eyes travel from the lifeless head on the floor to the living Warlord. The muscles of her face clenched rigid as iron while she measured which was real and which a sham. A sour smile twisted her mouth as she made her decision. “A very old trick I fell for.” Her voice sounded resigned, almost admiring. “A double. Congratulations, Warlord. But how were you prepared with it? I made sure there was no warning.”

  The Warlord strode into the room. “A warrior’s preparation is unceasing,” she said, reciting a common aphorism, and then laughed. “Come, I don’t share my secrets any more than do you. It was a formidable attempt, Morbid. It came close.”

  Morbid nodded in cold satisfaction. She stood taller in defeat than she had even in triumph. She said nothing more. Her dark eyes remained as proud as those of any of the ancient Kharvays, unblinking. She had not once deigned to look at Gorgo. She probably thought him a real police officer, and beneath her notice.

  The Warlord turned to her Fence. “Is Morbid guilty of treason?” Every Fence lord nodded assent. “Very well. The vote is unanimous. Mayden, you will summon the Council of the District Lords. Morbid will be executed formally before them. Morbid, may I assume you wish full Kharvay funeral rites?”

  “That will be acceptable.” Morbid looked the Warlord in the eye, and something like mutual respect seemed to pass between them. Morbid spoke to her warriors, who still crowded back in fear and uncertainty. “Put down your weapons. Submit to the Margays who come for you. You are under the Warlord’s jurisdiction now.”

  Ranks of Margays entered the chamber, surrounding the little knot of rebels. Shaken and glum, they surrendered their swords and were led from the room. Four Margays stepped up to surround Morbid.

  While the guards corralled the rebels, Honeylegs skittered away from the crowd, returning to Gorgo unseen. Gorgo eased away to the side of the chamber, although no one was paying him much mind. None of the Fence lords had really looked at him, Gorgo noted with relief. He guessed they had seen only his uniform, and would not recognize his face if they met him again. They might not even realize he had been the one who deactivated the golem. They probably thought the Warlord had done it somehow.

  The Implementer signaled to the Margays, and the guards marched from the room, Morbid between them. As Mayden turned to go, his eyes lingered on the Warlord, and his lips curved up. “You know I would have had Morbid assassinated, don’t you? You would have been quickly avenged.”

  Amusement danced in her eyes. “I have no doubt of it.”

  “It’s good to see you alive.” Mayden bowed, turned, and sauntered from the chamber. Only the Warlord and four Fence lords remained in the room with Gorgo.

  Jonlan shook his head, and laughed shortly. “Yahsta’s blood, Warlord, that was well-played.” He rubbed his lips, and added, “May I say that I much prefer working for you than for Morbid?”

  “You may, certainly.” The Warlord’s tone was bland, offering no reassurance, but Jonlan seemed unconcerned. He looked past her for a moment, and his eyes rested speculatively on Gorgo. He was the first Fence lord to take notice of him, and it made Gorgo uneasy.

  Ciano turned to the Warlord. “I request permission to attend Morbid’s execution.”

  “Granted.”

  She left without another word.

  Jonlan’s eyes followed her thoughtfully. “She’ll never say so, but I believe she’s glad to have you back.”

  Wormlight had gone to kneel by the severed head now resting on the floor. She laid her hands on it, closing her eyes. “A simulacrum,” she muttered after a moment. “I should have seen it.” She rose and looked the Warlord in the eye. “I resign my new position—Warlord.”

  “Accepted. Whom could we ever find to replace you as Head of the Ancients, after all? It would have been a shame.”

  “Am I actually named as your successor, or was that only a tale for Morbid’s benefit?”

  “You have been so named for years. M’Chay can confirm it.”

  The monk nodded.

  Wormlight brushed her hair back from her face, frowning. “A strange choice. You must know my first act as ruler would be to repeal the Orlant Decrees.”

  “And a few others as well. That’s a Warlord’s privilege.”

  “Then why?”

  The Warlord studied the sorceress for a moment. “You enjoy broad support, Wormlight. You have the favor of nearly every family, and you control the sorcerers of the city.”

  Wormlight’s eyes widened. “I would hold Wyverna together.”

  “Yes. I mean this empire to last.”

  Wormlight’s mouth quirked down. “I don’t want the job.”

  The Warlord chuckled. “I don’t plan to give it to you if I can help it.” Then she gestured to Jonlan, Wormlight, and M’Chay. “Enough talk now. Summon your departments; we go to the District Lords’ council. I wish this execution to be well-attended.”

  “You will come yourself?” Jonlan asked.

  “I will come in at the end. I have a few words to say to the District Lords.”

  “Very well.” Jonlan turned away, then looked back at the Warlord, eyes dancing. “Devourer, I think you enjoyed this.”

  The Warlord smiled back sardonically. Gorgo could not quite read her mood; was she truly amused or merely acting the part for the Fence’s benefit? He noted that sometime before she entered the Council Chamber, she had taken time to put on a fresh tunic; there was no trace of blood on her now. She clearly knew the importance of presenting an image of invulnerability before her Fence.

  Gorgo’s thoughts wavered. His head throbbed. The disturbing impression of not quite being in his body redoubled. Suddenly he wanted to sit down, or perhaps lie down and sleep for a week. Surely everything was over now. The room was emptying. Jonlan, M’Chay, and Wormlight wound through the crowd of stone warriors and exited through the broadest hallway. As they departed, a small grey man pushed past them and strode up to the Warlord, white lights swimming in the cold depths of his eyes. Gorgo found himself hoping the Hands would not look around and see him. He was certain he had not left a good impression on the man earlier this morning.

  Fortunately the Hands’ attention was all for the Warlord at the moment. His tones came icy and uninflected. “This is a highly disorganized way to run a city, Madam. Next time you might deign to give me some warning when you expect an infestation of vipers and seven-headed beasts in your front yard. I was not planning to spend my morning wrestling with monsters.”

  The Warlord chuckled, and laid a hand on his shoulder. “The excitement is good for you.”

  The Hands sniffed. He looked around at Gorgo. “This one again. I had a feeling I would be seeing him again. What is he doing in the uniform of one of our police officers?”

  Now the Warlord’s eyes rested on Gorgo as well. “That remains to be determined.”

  Gorgo’s head spun, and he fought not to sway on his feet. He did not like their twin regard. On his shoulder, Honeylegs stroked a pedipalp against his neck. Gorgo dug into his pocket, extracted Cockatrice’s globe, and tossed it to the Warlord. “This is yours.” She would have asked for it in
another moment anyway, he was certain, and he preferred to give it up voluntarily.

  The Warlord caught the globe and turned to the Hands. “Escort Gorgo to the healers, Kjor; I must go to the District Lords’ council.”

  “Very well. If the boy can manage to restrain his tongue. He has already insulted me once this morning.”

  The Warlord raised one eyebrow. “I am going to very much enjoy hearing this whole story when I have the time.” She strode from the room.

  Gorgo considered apologizing to the Hands, but decided speech was beyond him. The Dragon Fire was wearing off, and rapidly. The room telescoped again. Gorgo swayed and felt himself toppling. The Hands caught him. Devourer, the man was strong. The top of his head didn’t even come up to Gorgo’s chin, and yet he might have been made of solid granite. His body felt dense and immovable, his skin hard to the touch. He smelled faintly musty, like wet rock. He wrapped one arm around Gorgo and lifted him as though he weighed no more than a sack of grain. Wordlessly the Hands carried him down hallways that Gorgo was barely cognizant of. When at last the Hands dropped him onto a bed, Gorgo gratefully gave up the fight and let himself tumble into darkness.

  16: The Undoing

  After the execution in Ilkour, the Warlord returned to the Fence District through the Fence of Mirrors, stalking through its halls like a zestful panther. As usual, she was the only one there. Very few in Wyverna could even enter the labyrinth. For the Warlord it was a tremendous resource, her shortcut to any place she needed to be. Unlike the other layers of the Fence wards, the mirrored halls extended to the farthest reaches of Wyverna. The entire city was accessible to her within a few turns of the maze.

  Once back in Mort Glave, the Warlord removed the golem’s globe from her pocket. She spoke the words of the summoning incantation, and watched with interest as the hard, glassy surface of the crystal split. It pulled away like moist membrane, and gold ichor gushed out through the filmy strands. In the heart of the crystal a golden blob pulsed. In moments it ballooned into a seven foot monolith, ripping apart the shreds of crystal-skin. The last gossamer membrane sloughed from her form, fragile as cobweb, and Cockatrice was revealed. She glistened new-made, from her bronze helmet, breastplate, chausses, and greaves, to the polished metal of her boots. Her metallic eyes did not flicker. She made no move for her weapons. She stood as motionless as a vast statue of copper and bronze, until she inclined her head toward the Warlord. “What is your will, Sender?”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “You were my target in my last life cycle.”

  “You are no longer compelled to kill me?”

  “No, Sender; those orders belong to a previous life.”

  “Even though I am still alive?”

  “The life cycle has closed. They have no validity.”

  The Warlord regarded the golem for a moment, letting her questioning hang poised like a hunting hawk in the air. “Is there any way to restore those you have turned to stone?”

  In late afternoon the Warlord reappeared with Cockatrice at her side, and led the golem up to Gaithorn’s rooms on the fourth floor of Mort Glave. The statue that had once been the sorceress stood in the hall just outside her door, grey granite from head to foot, a carving by a master sculptor. Her lips were parted in her last word of warning to the Warlord, her stone eyes still a little widened. Cadi stood nearby, almost as motionless, her back to the wall and her face grim. Heizhen sat collapsed in boneless grace against the wall a few feet away, absorbed in scribbling something on a multitude of papers she held in her hands. She glanced up first, however, when the Warlord appeared. “I thought you’d come here.”

  The Warlord ignored her, speaking to the golem. “Restore her.”

  Cockatrice stepped forward, knelt down, and breathed into Gaithorn’s face. The grey stone misted over with a warm pink flush. Color spread from the sorceress’ face down through her body as the hardness leached from her. She blinked and drew a breath, her eyes focusing. She hissed at sight of the assassin, raised her hands to work a spell, and then dropped them as the golem stood unmoving. She licked her lips and settled her shoulders. “What happened?”

  “The assassin turned you to stone, Gaithorn, but she has now restored you,” the Warlord said. “Your timely warning of this morning quite likely saved my life. I owe you a rich reward.”

  Gaithorn waved this aside. “What does that matter? We would all do the same for each other. The point is, what is happening now?” The sorceress pinned Cockatrice with her glare.

  “Ah. This assassin is now in my service. She was sent by Morbid, who has been executed before the full council of District Lords. You’ll hear the whole story soon. Right now I wish you to accompany the golem while she brings back the rest of those she turned to stone. Morbid cut quite a swath through my staff, including my seneschal and more than six squadrons of Margays. I want them restored as soon as possible. Do you feel up to overseeing this?”

  Gaithorn’s back stiffened. “Certainly.” She turned her sharp eyes on Cockatrice. “Come along, then, it’s time to undo your handiwork. Good day, Warlord.”

  The Warlord nodded and waved a hand. “You will obey Gaithorn for a few hours, Cockatrice, until I tell you otherwise. Carry on.”

  Gaithorn bustled off down the hall. Cockatrice matched her pace, looming over the sorceress.

  Heizhen grinned at their retreating backs. “Like a terrier keeping watch on a dire wolf. It’s too bad Gaithorn wouldn’t see the humor in it.”

  Before the Warlord could answer, Cadi spoke up, her voice flat. “I offer my resignation, Warlord.”

  The Warlord raised an eyebrow. “On what grounds?”

  “Disobedience. You told me to stay by Gaithorn’s side and not reveal a word of the morning’s events until further orders. When I believed you dead I disobeyed both instructions. I am no longer worthy of your service.” Cadi kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, her face and bearing rigid.

  The Warlord looked thoughtful and said nothing for a moment. “A serious matter, certainly. But you’re too valuable to me to allow your resignation. Some form of discipline would be appropriate, I believe. Go down to the Map Room and await my orders.”

  Cadi nodded once, stiffly, not meeting the Warlord’s eyes. She set off down the hall.

  “Two years in the Catsclaw leave their mark,” Heizhen said, watching her go.

  “It’s one of the reasons I picked her. Her loyalty and self-control are unquestioned.” The Warlord regarded Heizhen with amusement. “It’s you who should be penitently offering your resignation. Didn’t I tell you to stay put in your house?”

  Heizhen rolled her eyes. “What discipline will you give her?”

  “Oh, I’ll find something useful for her to do. She won’t be happy unless she gets some onerous task. How long have you been here?”

  “An hour perhaps. I attended Morbid’s execution this morning. She went splendidly, I thought, in grand Kharvay style.”

  “I expected she would. Morbid would have taken either triumph or defeat with pride; it was being ignored she couldn’t stomach. I should have challenged her years ago in the ice islands, but she never gave me an excuse for it.”

  “She knew you were the better warrior. She never would have gone head-to-head.” Heizhen brushed masses of reddish hair back from her face and fixed the Warlord with a pointed gaze. “There’s a great deal of this story I haven’t heard yet.”

  “There’s a great deal I haven’t heard yet,” the Warlord said dryly. “Although the golem’s tale did clear up some details. It’s also given me a few more matters to take care of before I can settle back and discuss the event with you.” The Warlord smiled her long predatory smile. “I’ve summoned Na•ar to the Fence.”

  “Ohhh. So he was the dealer.” Heizhen mulled for a moment. “It does seem to fit.”

  “That he’s been dealing on the Nameless Market comes as no surprise, of course, but this one I can hardly afford to overlook. A little discipline is in order f
or him too.”

  “Selling Morbid the Assassin of the Kahlrites… I wonder if he thought her attempt would succeed?”

  “It nearly did.”

  “Still, you survived it.”

  The Warlord snorted. “I did nothing. I owe this success to the talents of my staff. Gaithorn and M’Chay kept me alive, and it still would have come to naught if our young Oribul friend had not shown up out of nowhere to hand me the keys to the golem. No, this was not my victory.”

  Heizhen unfolded herself off the floor, long-limbed and graceful. “Speaking of which, who is Gorgo, and where did he come from? The most logical assumption is that he was a member of Morbid’s organization, but it doesn’t seem to fit.”

  “No, Cockatrice’s story made it clear he’s not one of Morbid’s, not that I would have thought he was. I will hear his tale in time, but there are other urgent matters that command me now. Take yourself off for a while, Heizhen; I’ll discuss it with you later.”

  “If you wish it to be recorded as history, you’d better,” Heizhen warned, only half in jest. History was her profession, and she had seen a great deal of it unroll before her eyes.

  Two hard-faced Margays brought the message to Na•ar. He stared at the piece of parchment marked with the Warlord’s seal. It said only, “The Warlord requests your presence in the Fence.” He set it down. “If you will excuse me for a moment,” he murmured.

  “No,” the nearer Margay said.

  “You will come now, please,” the other said.

  Na•ar looked from one to the other. “As you wish.” As they led him from the room, he slipped a pack of cards into his pocket and straightened his shoulders.