Weapon of Fear (2 page)

“Pardon,
Sir Fineal.”  Commander Ithross stepped from the crowd.  “First squad, search
the entire dungeon.  Whoever did this didn’t pass us on the steps.  They must
still be down here.  Find these assassins!”

The
order sent a jolt of urgency through Hoseph.  There were prisoners down here
who had seen him in the company of Lad and Mya with the emperor.  Allowing them
to be interrogated would be disastrous.

As
the squad of imperial guards hastened off, Ithross took up position next to
Fineal.  “High Priest Hoseph, please continue.”

 
Hoseph’s mind spun, parsing the facts into things he could tell them and things
he most certainly could not.  His eyes fell on the six slabs of stone arrayed
around a heavy iron drain.  Only one was occupied.  Kiesha had been a beautiful
woman once, an excellent thief, and a competent operative.  Unfortunately, she
had decided to think for herself instead of obeying orders.  Though she had
been alive—barely—when he left the room, her chest no longer rose and fell.  A
story clicked into his mind. He pointed toward Kiesha’s corpse.

“I
was summoned by His Majesty to aid in the passing of that prisoner’s soul to
the afterlife.”

“You
did that to her?” Fineal interrupted.

“I
did not.  As you undoubtedly know, His Majesty preferred to conduct his own
interrogations.”  Hoseph suppressed a smile as the man shifted uncomfortably. 
A knight doesn’t like to be told that his master was a sadist, even if he might
suspect it.  “As I did my duty, two assassins appeared from nowhere.”  He
couldn’t very well tell them that Lad and Mya had come at the invitation of the
emperor himself.

“They
just
appeared
?” Ithross asked.  “The way you and Archmage Duveau just
appeared down the corridor?”

Hoseph
shrugged.  “I don’t know.  My attention was on my task.  His Majesty’s
blademasters defended him, but the two were preternaturally skilled.”

“Skilled?” 
The knight loomed over Hoseph, staring down at him with flinty eyes.  “Two
assassins kill
five
blademasters, and all you can say it that they were
skilled
?”

“Sir
Fineal, please,” Ithross protested.  “We need answers, not accusations, and
this investigation falls under the jurisdiction of the Imperial Guard, not the
knighthood.”

The
knight clenched his jaw, muscles writhing under his close-cropped beard.  “Of
course, Commander.  Please.  Ask.”

Ithross
turned to Hoseph.  “Can you describe these two assassins?”

“Yes. 
A young man and woman, both slim and light-skinned.  His hair was sandy
colored, and hers was red and short.”  He didn’t see a problem with giving
accurate descriptions.  If they had escaped the palace, he could have the
entire city looking for them in no time.  “That’s about as much as I could tell
in the furor.  I tried to intervene, but I was badly injured, as you saw.”

“So
you ran.” Sir Fineal sneered.

“Of
course, I ran.” Hoseph stared at the knight without quailing.  “If I hadn’t, I,
too, would be dead, and none would know what had transpired here.”  Hoseph
longed to sneer back, but maintained his equanimity.

“An
amazing story, High Priest Hoseph.”  Ithross turned to the archmage.  “Archmage
Duveau, we have seen by your own example that the dungeons can be accessed by
magical means.  How is that possible, considering the palace wards prevent
magical travel?”

Duveau
glanced sidelong at Hoseph, obviously disgruntled at having questions directed
his way.  “The dungeons are not protected by the wards, Commander.”

Ithross
looked skeptical.  “I was told that the wards extend around the
entire
palace.”

“And
His Majesty explicitly instructed me to maintain only those wards already in
place, which does
not
include these lower reaches.  There have been no
wards on the dungeon for longer than I have been archmage.”

For
one day longer…
 
Hoseph remembered the day Tynean Tsing ordered a reluctant Archmage Venron to
remove the dungeon wards.  Hoseph had made it look like a natural death, of
course, and the following day the emperor appointed an oblivious Duveau.

“Why
would he do
that
?”  Ithross sounded incredulous.

“I
have no idea, Commander.  I didn’t
question
my orders, I merely followed
them.”  The archmage raised an eyebrow.  “Were
you
in the habit of
asking an explanation from His Majesty?”

Ithross
ignored Duveau’s sarcasm.  “Can you use magic to find the assassins?”

“Perhaps.
 It would require something personal of theirs.  Hair, a nail clipping, or even
some token that they held dear for some time.”

“What
about the blood on this blademaster’s sword?”  A knight lifted a stained
katana.  “The assassins apparently didn’t get away without injury.”

“Alas,
no.  Blood is a fleeting thing in the human body.  I would require something
more substantial.”

“We’ll
have to search.”  Ithross waved over his lieutenant.  “Rhondont, send a runner
for the emperor’s healer.  Master Corvecosi may be able find something in this
mess that didn’t belong to one of the blademasters, and help us piece together
just what happened here.  And Prince Arbuckle must be informed of his father’s
death.”

“I’ll
inform the prince personally.”  Sir Fineal gathered his two squires and they
tramped out of the room.

Hoseph
bowed to Ithross.  “If it please you, Commander, I’ll be off to clean up and
rest.  Archmage Duveau has healed my injuries, but I am weary and heartsick at
the emperor’s demise.”

“No,
High Priest Hoseph, it does
not
please me.” Ithross looked stern. “The
emperor is dead, and all we have to go on is a vague description of two
assassins who apparently can pop in and out at will.  You may not remember
much, but Master Duveau’s magic can compel you to supply us with details you
may not readily recall.”  He’d stopped just short of calling Hoseph a liar.  “I
know you won’t mind.”

Hoseph’s
mind spun.  Under Duveau’s spells, Hoseph’s mind would be laid bare.  They
could ask him anything, and he would be compelled to answer truthfully.  That
he could not allow, not if he hoped to get out of here alive.

“High
Priest Hoseph?”  Ithross’ expression shifted to suspicion, and his hand drifted
toward his sword.

Hoseph
smiled wearily.  “Of course, I’ll do whatever I can do to help in the
investigation, Commander.  However, as the late emperor’s spiritual advisor, I
have been entrusted with certain…personal confidences.  It would be
disrespectful to inadvertently reveal anything in”—Hoseph glanced around at the
lingering guards and knights—“this company.  Perhaps I could answer your
questions someplace else?  Someplace
private
?”

“Very
well.  One moment.”  Ithross turned to his lieutenant.  “Rhondont, secure this
room.  No one should be touching anything until Master Corvecosi examines the
scene.”

Hoseph
strode for the door without waiting for Ithross or Duveau.  He had no time to
waste, not with so many loose ends to tie up before he left the dungeon. 
Lengthening his stride, he flicked his talisman into his hand as he turned the
corner, and invoked Demia’s divine power.  All Archmage Duveau and Commander
Ithross would find when they stepped into the corridor would be a few
dissipating tendrils of black mist.

T
he tap on the door snapped Prince
Arbuckle’s eyes from the book he was reading.  He glanced at the ornate clock
on his mantle.  It was late.  While it wasn’t unusual for him to read in bed
until the small hours of the morning, a knock on the door at this hour was
unheard of.

“Yes?”

The
door opened and his valet, Baris, stepped in, shutting the sturdy oak portal firmly
behind him.  The man’s glazed eyes and slightly askew jacket roused Arbuckle’s
curiosity.  In all the years that Baris had attended him, he had never seen the
valet less than sharp-eyed and impeccably attired, much less knocking on his
door in the middle of the night.

“I’m
sorry to disturb you, milord, but there is a knight here who insists on
speaking to you.”

“A
knight?”  This was getting interesting.

Arbuckle
didn’t know many of the knights beyond the few younger ones who sparred with
him as part of his martial training.  The older, more experienced knights were
often away keeping order in the provinces or commanding troops in the field. 
Perhaps one of these had arrived with an urgent question of military
convention, an issue requiring historical precedent.  Arbuckle warmed to the
prospect.  Though he’d never studied at a formal university, he’d had tutors
aplenty, and the palace boasted one of the best libraries in the empire.  He
was a true scholar of history, though few ever sought his knowledge or opinion.

“Which
knight?”

“Sir
Fineal, milord.”

“Fineal?” 
Though Arbuckle had met Sir Fineal, he didn’t know him well.  “Very well.”

By
the time Arbuckle had put his book aside and slipped his feet into a pair of
slippers, Baris held his robe ready.  Shrugging into the sumptuous garment,
Arbuckle tied the sash tight and ran his fingers through his unruly hair. 
“Good enough.  Let’s go.”

“As
you wish, milord.”  Baris bowed and opened the door.

Arbuckle
stepped into the sitting room, the two blademasters stationed at the door
slipping quietly into position behind and to either side of him.  Bright lamp
light reflected off Sir Fineal’s armor.  Two squires hovered behind the knight,
and all three bowed low as the crown prince entered.

“Milord
Prince,” Fineal said as he rose, “I bear tragic news.”

For
the first time since the knock on his door, apprehension trumped Arbuckle’s
curiosity.  He noted a red stain on the knight’s knee and boot—blood.  Dread knotted
Arbuckle’s stomach.

“There’s
been violence.  What’s happened?”

“I
regret to announce, Milord Prince, that your father, the emperor, is dead.”

“Dead?” 
The news was so far from what Arbuckle expected that the word didn’t register
at first.  “Dead?  How?”

“We
were told there were assassins, Milord Prince, in the…dungeon.”

For
a long moment, Arbuckle felt nothing.  He remembered being grief-stricken by
his mother’s death when he was only ten years old, so why didn’t he feel
anything now?  He welcomed the wave of emotion when it finally washed over him,
but instead of grief he felt…what?  Relief?  Liberation?  The second wave was
guilt for his lack of sorrow.  But then, he and his father had never been
close, the chasm between them widening year by year.  A son’s love can
withstand only so much derision and ridicule.  Arbuckle had long ago realized
that he didn’t even like his father, let alone love him.  Duty, however, he
understood.

“Take
me to him.”

Sir
Fineal’s mouth tightened and he seemed reluctant when he said, “Milord, it’s
dangerous.  In addition to your father, these assassins killed five of his
blademasters, and they’ve not yet been apprehended.”

Arbuckle
felt a trickle of fear down his spine like a cold finger or a drop of icy
water.
Five blademasters
… The notion seemed ludicrous. 
Impossible
.

The
two blademasters at Arbuckle’s sides stirred.  Glancing back at one of them, he
was amazed to see a flash of disbelief in the man’s eyes before it was secreted
beneath the customary blank expression.  The flash of humanity there surprised
him as much as the notion of regicide in the palace.

“Has
the Imperial Guard been mobilized, Sir Fineal?”

“Of
course, Milord Prince, and the entire knighthood and Order of Paladin as well.”

“Then
I daresay my safety is not at risk.  I
will
go to see my father.”  He
turned to his valet.  “Baris, some clothing, quickly now!”

“Yes,
Milord Prince.”  Baris dashed into Arbuckle’s bedchamber.

“Milord
Prince, I would feel better if your other bodyguards also accompanied you.  May
I summon them?”

“Of
course.”

Fineal
flicked a hand toward his eldest squire.  The young woman bowed and quickly
exited, her footfalls echoing as she ran down the corridor.

Arbuckle
retired to his bedroom to dress, his mind spinning. 
Who could kill five
blademasters
?  The entire situation seemed surreal. 
The dungeons
…
He suddenly remembered one day when he was quite young, his father insisting
that he accompany him down to the dungeons on the pretense of playing some sort
of game.  The faces of the prisoners and the stench of human confinement had
sent Arbuckle running.  That had been the first of many occasions when he had
resisted his father’s attempts to “educate” him.  What the education entailed,
Arbuckle never knew.  Finally—thank the gods—Tynean Tsing had stopped trying
and left Arbuckle to his books.

What
if this is just a ruse to get me down there
?  He wouldn’t put anything past his father.

Arbuckle
emerged from his bedroom into a sitting room crowded with agitated warriors. 
Three more knights and their squires shifted impatiently.  In contrast, the
additional blademasters stood absolutely still save for the flicking of fingers
as they conversed amongst themselves in their indecipherable sign language. 
Arbuckle swallowed.  He’d known since his youth that blademasters didn’t speak,
but had not learned until later that their tongues were cut out as part of
their training.  In a corner stood the imperial scribe, apparently summoned
from his bed, surveying the scene and scribbling notes in his big book.  All
snapped to attention and bowed.

Arbuckle
jerked his surcoat straight and twisted his neck to relieve a persistent kink. 
“Take me to the emperor.”

“Yes,
Milord Prince!”

The
entourage strode swiftly through the palace corridors and down myriad stairs,
the knights’ armor clattering, and the blademasters as quiet as death.  The
sumptuous tapestries and rugs of the residential wing gave way to the
ostentation of the public galleries, then an isolated corridor as bleak as Arbuckle’s
memory of it.  Instead of the impressively stout door he remembered, however, a
heap of splintered timber and twisted iron lay aside.

“What
happened here?”

“Archmage
Duveau breeched the door with magic, Milord Prince,” Sir Fineal explained. 
“Only the jailor has a key, and he couldn’t be found.”

“I
see.”  The thought of such power made Arbuckle’s skin crawl.  He had read about
the havoc wreaked by magic in battles, but the most extravagant description of
destruction paled beside first-hand observation.  All the blademasters in the
palace couldn’t protect against something like that. 
Thank the gods that
Archmage Duveau is on my side
.  “Lead on.”

The
long, dimly lit stair led to a dungeon worthy of nightmares.  The thick air
reeked of refuse and excrement.  As Arbuckle followed the knights down a
corridor, he spied within several of the barred cells forlorn figures huddled
upon straw-strewn floors without so much as a blanket for comfort.  His gut
roiled.  He understood that the empire had enemies, and that those arrested for
crimes must be punished, but such squalor was inhuman.

They
turned a corner.  A crowd of knights and squires stood before a doorway, facing
a line of imperial guards who blocked the entrance.  Though the heavy double
doors were open, Arbuckle couldn’t see through the mass of people to the room
beyond.

“Milord
Prince.”  Sir Fineal held up a forestalling hand.  “I must warn you that the
scene is…not pleasant to view.  The…interrogation chamber is a grim sight.”

“Very
well.  I’ve been warned.”  Arbuckle clenched his jaw, resolving to be stoic,
though the sickly scent of blood now permeated the air as well.  “Proceed.”

“Yes,
Milord Prince.”  The smell grew stronger as they approached the line of imperial
guards.

One
turned to call into the room.  “Commander!”

The
knights and squires moved aside, but the imperial guards held their ground.

“Move
aside for your lord prince,” Fineal said.

Arbuckle
peered past the guards, the light of a dozen torches gleaming on the burnished
metal racks, spikes, chains, and other implements that furnished the room. 
“Good Gods of Light!”

“Sir
Fineal, I told you that—”  Commander Ithross stopped as he caught sight of
Arbuckle, and his eyebrows shot up, then he bowed low.  “Milord Prince!  I
didn’t expect you to come down here.”

“Sir
Fineal has told me that my father is dead, Commander.  I
must
see him.” 
The guards stepped aside at Ithross’ wave.  Arbuckle entered, looked with
revulsion at the burnished machines of torture, then turned his gaze to the
imperial guard commander.  “What is this place?”

Ithross
swallowed forcefully.  “The emperor called this his interrogation chamber,
milord.”

“You
mean
torture
chamber, don’t you?”

Ithross
lifted his chin and gazed steadily back at the prince.  “His Majesty always referred
to it as the interrogation chamber, milord.”

“And
who conducted the interrogations?”  Arbuckle forced the words out, afraid that
he already knew the answer.

“I
don’t know for certain, Milord Prince, but it’s rumored among the guards and
knights that…” Ithross glanced questioningly at Sir Fineal and received a nod
of acknowledgement in return. “…that the emperor took a…special interest in the
practice.”

Arbuckle
felt ill.  He’d known for years that his father was a heartless tyrant.  That
Emperor Tynean Tsing had actually participated in the torture of prisoners,
however, turned his stomach.  Arbuckle fought to maintain his composure,
speaking through clenched teeth.

“Show
me my father, Commander.”

“Yes,
milord.” Ithross led them around the room’s thick central pillar, and a cordon
of guards parted. 

Blood… 
It was everywhere, the scent so thick that he could taste it.  Arbuckle stopped
at the shore of a congealing crimson lake strewn with carnage.  He had watched
the blademasters spar many times, always amazed at their skill and stamina. 
Trained to be the best, inured to pain, blessed by their god, and pledged to
defend their charges or die.  These five had died.

“Good
gods…”

A
figure to his left stood from a crouch—Master Corvecosi, the imperial healer—and
Arbuckle saw rich blue robes at the man’s feet.  He knew instantly who lay
there.

Father
…  Arbuckle skirted the thick pool
of blood, compelled by an unnerving yet unrelenting need to see this man whom
he had
thought
he knew.  Closer, he couldn’t avoid the blood, and his
shoes squelched in the spattered gore underfoot.

The
healer stepped aside, bowing low.  “Milord Prince.”

 “What
are you doing here, Master Corvecosi?” Arbuckle couldn’t take his eyes from his
father’s body, the bony hand clutching the dagger that had been thrust up
beneath his chin into his brain.  He tried to feel pity or sorrow, but all he
could think was that the old man’s cold eyes would never again stare
disdainfully, his lips wouldn’t twist into a sneer, his harsh voice wouldn’t
chide and berate, the hands would never again torture...  He realized with a
start that Corvecosi was speaking.

“…summoned
to examine the scene and lend my expertise, perhaps to determine exactly what
occurred here.”

“What
have you determined so far?”

“I
can unequivocally say that your father did not, as it may appear, take his own
life.  His hand gripping the dagger was very nearly crushed.  Something very
strong grasped His Majesty’s hand and thrust the blade that ended his life.”

“I
see.”

“I
have just begun examining the scene, Milord Prince, but I have already noted a
few peculiarities.”

“More
peculiar than five dead blademasters?”  Arbuckle stared at the carnage again. 
“How many assassins does it take to kill
five
blademasters?”

Ithross
mistook the rhetorical question for an inquiry.  “Milord Prince, we’ve been
told that there were two assassins.”

“Two?” 
Arbuckle couldn’t imagine anyone capable of such a feat.  “How in the Nine
Hells could two assassins overcome five blademasters?”