Weapon of Flesh (22 page)

“Here,” he said, handing another kerchief to Jorrel, the mage who had accompanied him from Twailin,” it dampens the stench.”

“Thank you.”  The mage followed suit, stifling a cough at the thick odor.

“That mage’s cart is back there in the back,” Constable Burk told them from the door to the stable.  “I made sure nobody touched it, but that wasn’t hard with such a stink.  Even the stable boy is sleepin’ in the inn these last few days.  If you don’t mind, I’ll just stay here.”

“That’s fine, Constable.  You’ve been most helpful in this matter.  The Guild will see that you’re compensated for the inconvenience.”

Targus kept his tone civil, though his mood was much darker.  He loathed being sent back to Thistledown for no other reason than to baby-sit this weakling mage.  It had taken them four days to travel from Twailin, with a full camp set up every night and Targus cooking for the both of them.  Jorrel was not as insufferable as many mages he’d dealt with, simply soft, with his satin robes, pointed shoes and superior air.  He tolerated Jorrel by necessity, but much like the smell, he didn’t have to like it.

The two approached the large two-wheeled cart carefully; it was well lit with the afternoon sun streaming through the stable windows, but wizards secreted many dangerous items among their things when they traveled.  Jorrel had assured him of that.  Why, even the cart might not be
just
a simple cart, though with the bumbling constable and his men handling it for so long, anything dangerous should have made itself known by now.

“Hold here for a moment, if you please, Master Targus.”

Targus stopped and watched the dainty little man wave his fingers in an intricate pattern and press them to his forehead, eyes closed.  He knew Sereth was performing a “seeing,” a simple scan for magical energy.  He also knew that all the finger waving was window dressing, a show to make his art seem more mysterious.  Seeings didn’t require a spell, per se, just proper concentration on the part of the wizard.  He thought for a moment about unveiling Jorrel’s sham, but restrained himself; there was no point in stirring up animosity.

“The wagon is mundane, but there is much magic here.”

“Just tell me what not to touch.”  Targus moved to the back of the cart and peered in at its contents.  There were several bags, boxes and even a small coffer piled under the broad seat, and there was, of course, the tightly wrapped shape of Corillian’s corpse.  The bodies of the others had been disposed of.

“There are many individual items here that may hold some danger for us, Targus.”  Jorrel waved his thin hand in a vague manner.  “The body, of course, but we will have to unwrap it.  That coffer, and the smallest box, also.  The rest is mundane, and can be searched at leisure.”

“Let’s get the body down first, then you can go over it while I look through the other stuff.”

“I would really rather not --”

“Helping me lift one corpse down from a wagon won’t tarnish your mystique, Jorrel.  Just grab his feet and pull.”

Jorrel complied with a grumble that Targus found amusing, though he stifled his smile.  Once the body was on the ground, the hunter produced a blade from his belt and applied it to the canvas wrappings.  The knife was short and curved, designed for separating hide from sinew and parted the thick material with little resistance.  What lay beneath crawled with pestilence.

“Hooaaa!”  Targas exclaimed as the full stench of the decomposing corpse hit them like a ram.  His head swam for a moment, dizzy with nausea.

“Here,” Jorrel said, producing a small vial from a pocket, “spirit of peppermint.  Dab some on your finger and wipe it under your nose.”  He demonstrated and handed the vial to Targus.

“Thank you.”  He applied some of the extract to his upper lip and immediately decided to revise his opinion of the mage.  When his nausea had vanished in a heady swirl of peppermint, the two carefully unwrapped the late Master Corillian.

The search was long, painstaking and, for the most part, fruitless.  Jorrel cooed like a child at midwinter gift giving and pocketed many items, but Targus could have cared less.  He was interested only in anything pertaining to the Master’s weapon; the mage could stuff his pockets with magical trinkets to his heart’s desire for all he cared.  Only when the wizard finally cracked the magical locking mechanism on the small coffer was Targus finally intrigued.

“A scroll?”  Jorrel said, crestfallen.  “All that over a simple scroll?”

Targus peered at the red velvet interior of the coffer; one simple roll of parchment wrapped in black ribbon lay there, the container’s sole occupant.

“And it’s not even magical!” Jorrel scoffed, after a brief seeing.  “What could possibly be so important as to warrant a magically warded coffer?”

The mage reached for the scroll, but Targus’ hand moved like a striking snake, snatching Jorrel’s wrist before his fingers could brush the rolled parchment.

“Have a care, Mage!  Not all traps are magical!”

“What?”  Jorrel’s eyes widened until Targus released his wrist.  “What do you sense?”

“Sense?  Ha!”  He removed a thin probe from his belt pouch and held it up to the light.  “I sense nothing.  I’ve just got a healthy amount of paranoia running through my veins, and it’s kept me alive for a very long time.  Watch and learn, Mage.”

He ran the probe along the rolled parchment, barely brushing the velvet bed on which it lay.  When the probe met the black ribbon, it caught there instead of simply bumping over the thin material.

“That’s what I thought.  The ribbon is the trigger.  It passes through the velvet and around something beneath, but I can’t tell whether releasing it or pulling it will set off the trap.”

He stared at it for a moment as if willing its secrets to the surface.

“It was my first inclination to grasp the scroll and lift it from its bed,” the mage offered.  “I think most would do so.”

“A reasonable assumption, but let me check something before we test that theory.”  Targus freed another probe, this one hooked, from his pouch.  “If I can get a peek under the covers...”

He teased up one corner of the velvet bedding and peered underneath.

“Very nasty indeed.”  He peeled back the coverlet for the mage to see, revealing a glass container filled with silvery metallic filings.  Under that lay a shifting layer of liquid.  The two containers were separated by a thin layer of glass, which was connected to the black ribbon by a golden wire.

“Elemental potassium, unless I miss my guess,” Jorrel said with a sigh of mixed fear and relief.  “That’s probably water beneath.  Break the glass and the two mix.  The explosion would not only destroy the scroll, but very likely reduce the unlucky burglar to cinders.”

“Nice.”  Targus very carefully untied the bow restraining the parchment and lifted it free.  “Now, let’s see what’s so important.”  He unrolled the stiff scroll carefully.  His eyes widened, and he immediately rolled it back up and stuffed it into a pocket in his cloak.

“Wait!  What was it?”  Jorrel stood as Targus lurched to his feet and started out of the stable.  “Where are you going?”

“Back to Twailin.  This must be taken to the Grandfather.”

“Now?  But we haven’t even had a meal!”  Jorrel trotted after him, past the dumbfounded constable to where their horses were hitched.  “You can’t be serious!”

“Stay here, Jorrel.”  Targus leapt into his saddle, his feet touching the stirrups only after his backside was in place.  “Go through the rest of Corillian’s things.  Keep it all, for all I care.  If you don’t want to travel alone, I’ll send someone back for you.  I’m going to be moving too fast to have you tagging along.”

“But what about the --”  Jorrel leapt out of the way as Targus kicked his mount into a gallop.  “Targus!  Wait!”

But Targus was already gone, and the damned constable was already standing at his elbow, waiting expectantly for the compensation that Targus had promised.

“Welcome to the
Tap and Kettle
, good Sir.”

Forbish wiped his hands on his apron and waved at the all-but-vacant common room.  There were just two other customers, a young couple from out of town who were spending the night before traveling downriver.  After the recent trouble, rumors were flying around the city like leaves on the wind; their business would suffer for a fortnight at the least.  But this man looked wealthy enough to make up for some of the slack.

“Would you be wanting a room for this evening, or is it just a meal and a draught from one of our fine kegs that you’re here for?  We’ve quite a selection of fine ales and stouts, if you’re interested.”

“Actually, I was recommended to this place by some business associates.”  The man dabbed his brow with a kerchief.  The gaudy gold and silver jewelry at his wrist jingled with every movement.  “They said you ran a fine inn, and kept a well-stocked cellar.  You must be Master Forbish.”

“Why, yes!”  Forbish offered his hand and gripped the other’s firmly, noting the shrewd narrowing of the man’s eyes.  “You are a local businessman, Master...?”

“Jarred,” he answered, retrieving his hand and nodding to the common room.  “And yes.  I do my business in many inns throughout the city.  I often entertain clients visiting from out of town, and I’m always looking for a new bit of local color to show off to them.  Twailin is so diverse, you see.”

“Yes, of course!  Of course!”  Forbish showed the man to a table, knowing immediately that this was a very important customer.  The innkeeper was no novice at gauging people, and he knew that both he and his establishment were being sized up very carefully.  There was scrutiny and a peculiar wariness in the man that he found discomforting.  “And your business?”

“I’m an importer.”  He waved a hand inconsequentially, the bracelet chiming.  “Just a middle man, so to speak.  I handle merchandise between those that supply it and those who sell it to the public.  For a small percentage, of course.  I was told your ale selection was second to none, which is why I am here.  When I entertain I like variety and local flavors.”

“Perhaps you would like a sample of what we have to offer?”  The door to the kitchen creaked as Wiggen brought the couple their dinners.  Forbish cast a glance at her and smiled.  “I’ll have my daughter bring you a sampler of our best ales.”

“That would be delightful, Master Forbish.  Thank you.”

Forbish scurried off, following his daughter into the kitchen.

“That’s a very important customer at that table, Wiggen.  Get him a sample of each of our best.  None of the dregs, now, mind you.  In fact, tap a new barrel of the Keeshire Red.  The one on tap’s been open too long.”

“Why’s he so important?” Wiggen asked, placing the tray on the preparation table and selecting half a dozen small glasses from the rack.

“He’s an importer!  Entertains all types of rich merchants and the like!  He wants to bring people here to impress them with what Twailin has to offer!”

“Or he’s just trying to get a free drink out of a gullible innkeeper,” Wiggen said with a scoff as she went to fill the glasses.

“Now, Wiggen, don’t you start with me!  Here’s a chance to bring in some business, and you’re laughing at me!  What do you want me to do, tell him he’s got to show me his money before he’s gettin’ a sip from any of my kegs?”

“No.  I’m sorry, Father.”  She moved into the taproom and began filling the glasses with foamy amber liquid.  “Why don’t you put out a plate of cheese and bread for him to nibble.  There’s that nice dark-red Liechester we got the other day.  It’ll go nicely with these.”

“An excellent idea!”  Forbish snatched up one of his many knives and sawed off a corner of a warm dark loaf, and then reached for the cheese.  By the time he had several thin wedges cut and placed on the plate with the bread, Wiggen was back with her tray of ales.  “Let’s go present this to him together, shall we?”

“No, Father.  You--”

“Now, I won’t hear of it!” he snapped, nudging her toward the door before she could duck her head and refuse.  “I want to show
all
of the
Tap and Kettle’s
best points, Wiggen, and you’re one of them, so you just straighten up and be nice to the man.”

“Alright, Father, alright.”  She backed through the swinging door and turned to the room, balancing the tray on one hand and brushing her hair down over her scar with the other.

Forbish sighed and followed her to the man’s table, smiling as they approached while wishing that his daughter could see herself past the scar on her cheek.  She was a beautiful young woman, but she felt that she had nothing to offer because she’d been abused, damaged beyond wanting.  Forbish knew differently; he saw how men watched her, even those who had seen her scar and knew its origin.  Some men were shallow enough not to see beyond it, but most were not.  Why couldn’t she see that?

“Here you are Master Jarred.  Six of our best ales, and a bite to smooth your palate between tastes.”  He put the platter of bread and cheese next to the ales, and said, “Thank you, Wiggen,” as she curtsied, keeping her face averted.

Forbish turned back to his guest.  “I think that you’ll find the Highland Summerbrew to be...   Master Jarred?”