Weapon of Flesh (25 page)

“Jingles!  Come out.”  Her voice was flat and hard, that of one in command.

“I will not betray my guildmaster!” a male voice said from the darkness of the tack room.

“Then you’ll die here!” she spat, taking another step away from the door where her reluctant accomplice hid.  “He’s more than we bargained for, and that’s what I’ll tell the Grandfather.  He will not kill us for failing to acquire his weapon.”

His weapon?
  Lad thought, his mind snapping to the allusion to his destiny.  Perhaps this was a hint to the reason for it all, the foundation for his creation.

“On your word, Mya,” the male voice said amid the scuffing of his boots.  The revelation of the woman’s name caught him off guard as Lad watched the man move into the open.  This was the woman he’d met on the road!  She’d been searching for him!

“Mya!” he called, moving into the open.  “Before you leave, I wish to speak with you.”  He wasn’t much concerned with the two; he could vanish into the shadows long before either could bring a weapon to bear.

“Why?”  She sounded suspicious and a little scared.  That was good.

“I wish to know more of your master.  You said you were here to acquire his weapon.”  He took another step and stood at the edge of the loft.  “I am his weapon?”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I am not.”  Lad stepped off the platform and dropped easily to the floor of the barn.  The two stood ten paces in front of him, obviously uncomfortable with his approach.  This suited Lad fine, for their fear was his ally.  He took three careful steps, moving into the diffuse moonlight.  “I will not serve the man that sent you here, if his tactics include attacking innocent people from hiding.  Go to him and tell him that I refuse to be his weapon.  If more are sent to take me, they will meet the same greeting as you have.”

“You have learned much since our meeting on the road, Lad.”

He blinked in surprise at her use of his name, then took the time to recognize the man who stood next to her.  It was the man who had visited the inn yesterday, the one with the jingling bracelet and the hidden weapons.

“I have learned much, Mya.”  He took another three steps, stopping barely within striking distance.  He could kill them both in an instant if he had to.  “I have learned that I do not want to be a slave made only to kill.  I have learned what friends are, and I have learned that I can say no.”

“My master will not be happy with that.”

“Then your master will not be happy.  Tell him this: if he does not let me go, I will kill him.”

“I will tell him.”  She took a cautious step forward.  “You are a worthy adversary, Lad, and I would have your hand on this agreement: I will not seek to harm you from this day on, even if my master tells me to do so.”  She held out her hand for him to take.

He stared at her for a moment, suspicious, but her hands were in the open and empty, and she knew he could kill her in the blink of an eye if she tried something foolish.

“Very well.”

He stepped forward and took her hand into his.

This was the only time that the magic that protected Lad from pain and injury betrayed him, for he did not feel the tiny prick of the needle that was hidden inside the ring Mya wore.  He only felt the invisible grip of the narcotic as it enveloped his mind and sent him sagging to the ground.

Exhaustion gnawed at the muscles of Mya’s back and shoulders; it had been a long night, and it was only going to get longer.

“Careful with that, damn you!” she snapped at the two ham-handed guards who were unloading the boy’s bound form from the carriage.  If they split his skull on a flagstone, all of this would be for nothing.

It had taken her and Jingles an hour to remove the two dead and two unconscious members of the team from the barn and scour the place clean of any trace of their presence.  The hardest part had been finding all of the spent arrows and darts that had missed their mark, but she felt sure that all had been accounted for.  The two wounded members of the team would recover, one by morning, since the wound was a simple prick and the drug would wear off in about six hours.  The other, Keewa, the woman with three broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder, would take longer to mend.  Once everything was cleaned up, and the boy bound and hoisted into the guild’s carriage like a sack of grain, they had gotten some help from Jingles’ people and acquired an escort to ensure that nothing happened to their precious cargo before it was delivered to the Grandfather.

That task, at least, was done, and it was no small glow of satisfaction that warmed her as she stepped out of the saddle and handed her reins to one of the grooms.  But she knew that there would be questions to be answered and accounts to be given of the incident.  All she really wanted was to go to bed.

“Grandfather!”

She turned and bowed at the guard’s exclamation, knowing what was to come, and dreading it more than a beating.

“Excellent!  Excellent!  Hold there a moment while I have a look.”  The Grandfather of Assassins strode down the steps of his estate, drawn to the bound form of the boy like a great black moth to a flame.  “Most excellent indeed!”  His wrinkled old hands caressed the boy’s unconscious features like a blind man memorizing a face by touch.  He pinched the flesh, tested the eyes and felt for pulse at neck and wrist, all in the span of a few breaths.  “Yes, this will do nicely.  Take him to the interrogation room and place him in the restraints I have prepared.  He should remain senseless for several more hours.”

The guards, led by the Grandfather’s valet, carried the wisp of bound flesh up the steps and into the manor house. 
Swallowed like a dragon gobbling down a choice morsel
, Mya thought.

“Mya!”  The Grandfather’s voice was like the crack of a whip, wrenching her from her exhausted musings and snapping her shoulders out of their slump.

“Yes, Grandfather,” she said, bowing shortly and meeting his gaze evenly.  His wizened features were stretched into a mask of glee, and from the lines and wrinkles that were being crisscrossed by those of mirth, she could tell that this was not his usual mien.

“You have performed beyond all my expectations.”  He laughed a short bark of amusement that set the hairs at the nape of her neck on end.  “Truth be told, I expected the weapon to slaughter you all like lambs in a pen!”

“Then I am happy that, in that expectation only, I have disappointed you, Grandfather.”  Though she chose her words carefully, she saw that the affront had not gone unnoticed.  Mya was far too tired to let such a comment go unchallenged, be it from the Grandfather of Assassins, or Duke Mir himself!  She smiled and bowed again, wondering if he would kill her on the spot for her insolence.

She did not hear him move, but she had not expected to.  She managed not to jump as his cold fingers settled upon the nape of her neck, chilling her like the touch of a ghoul.
 Well, it could have been a dagger
, she thought, willing herself not to shiver.

“You
do
know that I have killed for less, Mya.”  There was no mirth in his voice now, but nor was there malice, only warning.  The pressure of his fingertips intensified for a moment and her head swam with dizziness.

“Yes, Grandfather,” she managed, as the pressure abated.

“See that you remember it.

“And you, Jarred.”  He turned from her and shook Jingles’ hand.  “Well done!  You will be compensated for the people you lost this night, of course, and for the healing of the one that was wounded.”

“Thank you, Grandfather,” he said, with a bow.  “But it was Mya who took the prize this night, Sir.  We would all be dead if not for her, and your weapon would be that much the warier.”

“Oh?”  The old man’s gaze slid sideways to Mya once again, his eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly, either in scrutiny or warning, she could not tell.  “How so?”

“He knew we were there the moment he walked into the barn, Sir.”  Jingles bit his lower lip but continued with his account, ignorant of Mya’s glare.  “We lost two blades before we got as many decent shots off, one of which the boy plucked out of the air like a bat pickin’ off a juicy moth.  He would’a cleaned us up slicker than spilt grease if Mya hadn’t tricked him.”

“Tricked him?”  His eyes snapped to focus again on Jingles and the man shrunk under the scrutiny.  “Tricked him how?”

“Well, when two more of our people were down, and the boy said that we’d be safe and let go free if we just gave up, she made like she would take him up on it.”  His eyes flickered back and forth from Mya to the Grandfather, but there was no contest as to where the greater threat lay.  “She even had me fooled with the way she played right into his offer.  Stood right out in the open and ordered me to come out.  Well, I refused flat out, but she said you wouldn’t kill us for lettin’ the boy go since we were so much overmatched, so I came out.”

“You believed her?”  There was the slightest edge of sarcasm in that ancient voice, Mya thought.

“Well, not really, Sir.  But she was in command of the operation, like you said.  And then when he came out, she tricked him into shakin’ her hand and he dropped like a pole-axed steer!”

“You had an envenomed ring?” the oldster asked, flicking her a stare that would have stopped a charging bull in its tracks.

“I did, Grandfather.”  She left it at that, refusing to embellish.

“That was most deceitful of you, Mya,” he said, one gray eyebrow twitching upward.

“Thank you, Grandfather,” she said with a short bow.  She did
not
smile at his irony.

“And very quick thinking, to change tactics so drastically in the middle of an operation.  I must say that I am impressed.”  He turned to Jingles and said, “You may go.  You can expect a package from me tomorrow.”

“Yes, Grandfather.”  Jingles turned on his heel and mounted, calling the rest of his people together with the snap of his fingers.  Mya didn’t particularly like the man, but felt his departure keenly.  She was now the only target for the Grandfather’s wrath or gratitude, whichever he chose to wield, and at this point she wasn’t particularly sure which she would prefer.

“Come with me, Mya.”  He turned and entered the estate and she was forced to follow.

She followed him down the same stairs that she knew led to the sparring chamber, and the repository for his potions and poisons.  She still had the pot of narcotic extract in her belt pouch, and thought that might be where he was taking her.  Surely he would want the mixture back; such potent extracts were exceedingly rare and ruinously expensive.  And indeed they did pass through the sparring room and down the short hall that ended in three doors, but as her hand drifted to her belt pouch, the Grandfather worked a key into the door on the right instead of that on the left.  Beyond was a descending stair cut out of the living rock; he started down without a word and she followed.  At the bottom was another simple oak door.  The Grandfather’s keys rattled as he opened it.  She swallowed and followed him through.

The interrogation room turned her stomach.

The room was a wide half sphere, and a maze of machinery and shelving.  The implements on the shelves and most of the larger devices were designed for a common purpose.  She’d seen many such devices before, and was even trained in the use of some, but she’d never had a taste for torture.  She was a hunter, not a butcher.

The guards were clapping padded manacles around the boy’s wrists, arms, legs and ankles upon a bed of stone padded with supple leather.  The restraints and the slab itself were made neither for comfort, nor to cause pain.  This was the only device in the room so designed; all of the devices looked well maintained, and well used.

Mya focused upon her master, refusing to let the surroundings unnerve her.

The guards finished their work and left without a word, but the valet lingered, hovering like a skinny little vulture waiting for something to die.  The Grandfather stood at the side of the boy’s pallet, staring down at his prize, silent as a grave, his mien every bit as warm.  He stood there until Mya thought he might have forgotten she was there.  Her eyelids were beginning to sag as his voice brought her back like the prick of a needle.

“I must admit that I am at a bit of a loss about what to do with you, Mya.”  His tone was even, and his eyes never left his newly acquired weapon.  “Over the last few weeks, you have been privy to much that is dear to me, much that could be put to use against me.”

He paused, and Mya began to wonder if she would ever again see the outside of this room.

“Usually, when someone possesses such information, someone whom I do not yet fully find worthy of my trust, I neutralize the threat.  You, however, have shown remarkable fortitude, considerable intelligence and an uncanny ability to make decisions under pressure; yet you are young and somewhat untempered.”

She did not reply, not knowing if she should agree, disagree, or thank him.

“What would you choose, if given the opportunity to guide your own destiny, Mya?”

“I would choose to be a hunter,” she said without pause, meeting his eyes as he turned to assess her response, “if Master Targus would take me back.”