Weapon of Flesh (32 page)

“Holy Gods!  Er... Sir, I mean…”  The corporal’s stammering devolved into silence as the Captain looked around the carriage, searching for clues.  There was nothing ¾ nothing but a dead Viscount, the dagger and the note.

“Well, I guess he didn’t have
time
to apologize for this one,” Norwood muttered to himself, raking his stubble of beard with his blunt nails.

“Apologize, Sir?”  The corporal looked even more baffled.

“Yes, Corporal, apologize is what I said!”  He reached into the carriage and jerked the dagger free.  The young man’s corpse slumped forward.  “The other five victims had the word ‘Sorry’ written on their foreheads in their own blood.  He was evidently in too big a hurry this time.”

The corporal remained wisely silent as Norwood removed the note from the dagger’s hilt.  The parchment was crumpled, meaning it had been bound to the hilt before the knife was thrust through the Viscount’s eye.  He handed the dagger to the corporal, who took it like a man might handle a live scorpion.  The note was predictable, if not informative.

“Cocky bastard!”  The note was identical to the one they’d found with Count Dovek’s wife, except for the single line through the Viscount’s name.  The Count’s sister was next on the list, and the date was two days away.  “Well, we are
not
going to take any chances on this one!  Corporal, I want you and your men to take charge of Count Dovek’s younger sister, Patrice.  She is to be protected.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir!”  The man’s face told the Captain that he was not looking forward to the assignment.

“I’m putting you on this job, Corporal, because you understand what we are dealing with here.  If an assassin can kill his target inside a moving carriage with four armed guards watching, and still get away without a scratch or even a decent description, we need to step up our security.”

“Yes, Sir!”  The man sounded a little more steady, determination taking the place of stark fear.

“Good.  I want you to draw three more guards from the roster, and give two of them crossbows.  Explain to the Count’s sister that she will be under house arrest for her own protection until three days hence.”

“She’s not going to like it, Sir.”

“I think she might like a dagger through the eye a little less.”

“Should I tell her that?”

“If she makes trouble, yes.  Just keep her alive, Corporal.  We’ll handle the political consequences later.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Oh, and send word to Sergeant Tamir to step up security on the other targets.  He’s coordinating the duty roster, so he’ll have to make some changes.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The corporal turned and left the Captain to inspect the crime scene.  There wasn’t much to inspect.  He took another look at the carriage window and shook his head in amazement; it was nowhere near as wide as his shoulders.  Whoever this assassin was, his skills were truly astounding.

“This reeks of magic like a wizard’s old underwear,” he growled, wondering how many more would die before they got lucky and put an end to this murdering scum.

“What is it?”  Duke Mir looked up from his desk at the guard who had just knocked on his office door.  The man looked decidedly ill.

“It’s Count Dovek, M’lord.  He requests an audience.”

Duke Mir cringed.  He’d been expecting this.  The man had lost his wife and now his son, in a span of three days.  The Duke’s own nephew had fallen to the same assassin, and now all the nobles were running scared.  Pressure was being applied — some subtle, some not so subtle.

“Show him in.”  The Duke closed his ledger and steeled his nerves.

“Very well, M’lord.”  The guard closed the door, and it reopened a moment later.  Duke Mir barely recognized the man who shambled in behind the guard. 

“Dovek, my good Count!”  He was out of his chair and around the desk before he knew what he was doing.  He offered first his hand, then a warm embrace to the wreck of a man.  Dovek had never been very strong; his title was inherited for the fourth generation.  He was not military, and was not used to violence or death.  Mir had lost loved ones to violence before.  He knew how to handle the pain, knew that there would be an end to it eventually.  “Hold fast, Man.  We’ll make them pay for this, I promise you!”

“Can you, M’lord?” the man asked, stifling a sob and breaking the embrace to stare imploringly into his lord’s eyes.  “That devil isn’t mortal.  He’s a black wraith.  The guardsmen who came to look after Patrice told her.  They
saw
it!”

“Calm yourself, Dovek.  Here.”  The Duke drew him away from the door to a small nook in the corner of the office.  From a cupboard he produced a bottle and two glasses.  “This will calm your nerves.”  He poured two fingers of good brandy into each glass and pressed one into the Count’s trembling hands.  They both took a steadying drink.

“Now, what’s this the guards said?”

“The ones who were watching over my son.  They said the one who killed him couldn’t have been human.  He was all black, and he came right through the carriage’s window!  They say he was a wraith!”

“Now, Dovek, they would say that just to make their own failure seem less.  Wraiths don’t use daggers, and they certainly don’t leave threatening notes.”

“But the guards said --”

“The guards don’t
know
, Dovek!  Come here.”  He virtually dragged the other man over to his desk, opened a drawer and pulled out several sheets of parchment.  “These are not from some
wraith
, my friend.  They are from someone who is trying to manipulate me, both directly, by killing my nephew and threatening to kill the rest of my family, one by one, unless I do as they say, and indirectly, through threatening those in my court.  I’ll wager you’ve gotten several of these the last few days.”

“Well, yes, I did get some notes that were unusual, but I didn’t think that they had anything to do with this.”

The Count’s voice had changed, Mir realized.  He’d made a career out of reading people’s intentions, and knew that Dovek was not wholly ignorant in this.

“I mean, people send me notes all the time asking for favors, or asking me to ask you for some favor.  How do you know these are from the assassin?”

“I do have
some
resources, Dovek,” he said with a smile, keeping his own tone even.  “Master Woefler is very adept at discerning things.  The ink on the notes found on my nephew and your wife is the same as the ink on these notes,
exactly
the same, as is the parchment they’re written on.  Just looking at them side by side, I could tell you that the hand is the same.  And there’s this.”  He retrieved a small clear vial half full of a dark granular material.  “This is blood, my friend, the culprit’s blood.  He’s human, male and no more than twenty years old, by Woefler’s reckoning.  Someone is pressuring me, and they’re using the threat of killing everyone we care about to exert that pressure.  It’s all about money, Dovek.  They want me to relax the trade restrictions with Morgrey.  The tariffs on barge traffic.  It’s that simple.”

“My Lord!  I never thought...”  The Count’s face was even paler than when he’d come in.

“I’ve got my very best man on this, Dovek.  Captain Norwood has more experience hunting down scum like this than any man I know.  He’ll put an end to it, I promise you.”

“But the rest of the court, M’lord.  They’re starting to talk.”  He glanced at the ever-present guards and lowered his voice.  “They say if the murders don’t stop, they’ll force a vote of no-confidence on you.  They’ll ask the Emperor to replace you.”

“Oh, they
will
?”  Duke Mir squared his shoulders and clenched his jaw to curb his temper.  “Tell them this, then: if we accede to these threats, we will forever be under the thumb of these murderers.  I will
not
be dictated to by those who use murder and fear to dominate others!  If my
court
demands that I do, they will
also
find that I am rather noncompliant when threatened.”

“Yes, M’lord,” the Count said with a stiff bow.

“They killed my nephew, Dovek,” he growled, his eyes narrowing to slits that would have shot arrows if they could have.  “I bounced that boy on my knee thirty-five years ago.  I’ll
not
give in.  Not now, and not if every noble at court comes crying to my door.”

“M’lord!  I didn’t come to --”

“I know, Dovek.  I know,” he said, knowing that that was
exactly
why Dovek had come calling.  He patted the man on the shoulder and raised his glass.  “To finding the murdering scum who did this, and seeing their heads roll for what they’ve done.”

The two men drank.

“Now, please, leave me.  I’ve got so much work stacked up here that I’ll never get out of this damned office.”

The count bowed and left, and Duke Mir sat at his desk and sighed.  He then drafted a note to his Captain of the Royal Guard.  The first part of the message was quite heated, and concerned the flapping mouths of his guardsmen.  The second related the disturbing trend among the nobility.  Count Dovek was cracking under the pressure, or had already cracked.  He and others like him would have to be watched closely, before they did something stupid.

Forbish nudged the kitchen door aside with his ample stomach and pushed through, placing a heavy bag of flour on the counter and settling another bag of rice beside it.  His face was red from the exertion, and his back was in flames.

“You alright, Father?”

“Oh, fine, Dear.  Just my back, is all.”  He straightened himself with several audible pops and forced a smile.  “Nothing a night’s sleep won’t cure.”

“Do you want me to help?”  Wiggen moved from behind the counter where she’d been chopping vegetables for the evening stew.  “I can lift one end.”

“Thank you, Wiggen.  I asked that worthless boy the miller has delivering his goods, but he said some nonsense about having to finish his rounds.”  He lifted one end of the bag of rice while Wiggen lifted the other, and together they moved it into the storeroom.  “He said the whole city’s stirred up like a nest of chatter vipers.  Seems some rich noble got killed in his sleep, and everybody’s frettin’ like they’re next.”

“I’ve heard more than that, Father,” she said as they went back through the taproom to fetch the bag of flour.  “I’ve heard that six have been killed in the last four days.”  She stopped when they got back to the counter, pinning Forbish with her eyes.  “It’s Lad, isn’t it?”

“I think so,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.  Wiggen had been close to the edge for days; any little thing sent her into tears.  “I think they’ve found out a way to make him do what they want.”

“You mean they’re making him kill for them.”  She took the bag of flour from him and flung it over her shoulder.  “It makes me
sick
to think about it!”

“Here, Wiggen!  Let me help.  You’re going to hurt yourself!”

“I’m fine, Father,” she said, “and I’m stronger than you think I am!”  She strode through the taproom and heaved the bag onto the shelf with an ease that surprised him, and when she turned back to him he could see the anger in her.  He’d
never
seen her like this.

“Now, Wiggen.  Just calm down.”

“No, Father, I
won’t
calm down!  They’re making him into a
murderer
, and it’s not right!”

“No, it’s not right, but there’s nothing we can do about it.”  He saw the blind determination in her eyes, determination driven by love, which was equally blind.  “If we get involved, they’ll come after us.”

“I’d be
dead
if it weren’t for Lad, Father.  Worse than dead!  You
know
what Urik and his goons were planning to do to me.  Right here!  In this room!  They would have raped me and then killed me right in front of you.  If they come for me now, after having threatened that, how much worse could they hurt me?”

“Wiggen, I --”

“I know.  You don’t want to lose me.  Well, we didn’t want to lose Tam either, and you didn’t want to lose Mama, but they’re gone.  But we didn’t lose them, Father.  They were
taken
from us!  Taken by the same murdering filth who are making Lad into one of them.”