Weapon of Flesh (34 page)

“Yes.”

“So, you do what you’re told to do, and beyond that you can do what you
want
.  Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“No, it is
not
right, Lad.”  She took a step and glared right into his eyes.  He could see the pulse pounding at her temples, hear her heart racing and smell the sweet tang of her nervous sweat.  “You do what you’re
told
to do and nothing else.  Is that clear?”

“It is clear, Mya, but it is not possible.” 

“Why not?”  She was even more livid now.

“Because there are many things that you have never told me to do that I am required to do to live.”  He shrugged.  “Breathing, for example.”

“Oh, that’s ridiculous!  You know what I mean, so just follow my orders.”

“I do follow your orders, Mya.”

“Yes, but you do other things that you know perfectly well are against my wishes.”

“I do?”  He knew what she was talking about now, where this conversation was going.  He didn’t know how she had discovered it, but she knew.  And now she would order him to stop.

“Yes, you do!  The little apologies you write in blood on your victims.  It has to stop, Lad.  It’s foolish and it could get you caught.”

“If you order me to stop, I must stop, but I do not see how it could cause me to be caught.”

“There are things you don’t know about, Lad.  Things like sorcery.  There are spells of divination that might lead a wizard to you using the messages you wrote.”

He didn’t respond; there was nothing to say.  She may well be telling him the truth, but that didn’t change anything.  He would continue leaving the messages unless he was specifically ordered not to.  He could see the anger smoldering behind her eyes.

“Will you stop with these foolish apologies?”

“If you order me to stop, I must stop.”

“Then I order you to stop.  You will leave no messages, apologies, or other written communication on or near your victims.  Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“Good.  Now tell me what possessed you to do such a thing?”

“Nothing possessed me, Mya.  I wished to do it, and I did.”

“But why?  What purpose could apologizing to the dead serve?”

“I was not apologizing to the people I killed.  I was apologizing to the ones who are their friends.  They will be hurt by the deaths we have caused, and I am sorry for it.”

“Who told you to be sorry for anything?  I know your old master would never have put such a stupid idea in your head.”

“No, it was not my master.”  He didn’t like the direction this was taking.

“Then who
was
it?”

“It was someone I met later.”

“Yes, I
know
that.  Stop being evasive, Lad.  Who told you that you should be sorry for hurting people?  Answer me!”

“Wiggen.”

“And who is Wiggen?  Tell me, and be specific!”

“She is a young woman who is the daughter of the innkeeper, Forbish, who owns the
Tap and Kettle
.  She is my friend.”  The words left his mouth despite his desire to hold them in; he couldn’t even clench his teeth against the facts that could mean Wiggen’s death.

“Your
friend
?”

“Yes, Mya, my friend.  My best friend.”  He knew what would come next: the order to kill them, the order he had worried would come since the day he’d been taken by the Grandfather.  He did not feel true dread or fear, but there as a twisting discomfort within him not unlike the desperate hunger of starvation.  Once again, Mya surprised him.

“Well, she must be pretty pathetic if she chose a witless boy like you for a friend.”  She took two scrolls from the case at her belt.

The discomfort within him fell away, leaving him swimming in a sea of relief, but curiosity soon replaced that.  Why would Mya suddenly drop the subject when she knew he was at her mercy?  This was not the tactic of a hunter.

“These are your targets for tonight.  The first is Baron Volkes’ niece, the second is Count Tirian’s son.  Both are well guarded.  And this brings up another of your transgressions, Lad.  You were told to kill anyone who saw you and might be able to identify you.  The guards in the Viscount’s coach saw you.  You should have killed them.”

“What is a transgression?”

“It’s when you do what you want instead of what I want.  From now on I want you to kill anyone who witnesses the murder, whether you
think
they could identify you or not.”  She rolled out the first scroll.  “Now look at this closely.”

“So it is
you
who wants these people dead, Mya?”  His eyes were welded to the scroll by her order, but the rest of his mind was free to bait her.  “I thought it was the Grandfather.”

“Shut up and listen to me,” she growled, her features darkening with rage.  “You know I could order you to kill your friends, yet you taunt me.  Do you think that is wise?”

He looked at her, unable to speak because of her first order, but compelled to speak by her question.  The discomfort within him swelled, prickling his skin into gooseflesh as emotions he could not feel battered against the magical restraints like a butterfly in a glass jar; friendship, anger, resentment, fear and desire all struggled impotently for supremacy over the magic.

“Answer me.  Do you want me to order you to kill Wiggen?”

“No.”  He could feel the heat of the magic restraining his desire to lash out in one lightning blow and end the threat to Wiggen’s life.  Mya was less than half a step away; a simple snap kick to the throat would end it.  He willed himself to attack, planned it in his mind and told his muscles to do it, but the magic would not let him.  He stood there, quivering, unable to move.

“Then do not bring up the Grandfather again.  His orders come through me.  That is enough for you to understand.”  She reached out and took his chin in her hand, pulling his face close to hers.  “Do you understand me?”

“I understand you, Mya.”  The desire to kill her was overwhelming.  A simple thrust-twist and it would be over!  The heat washed over him in a torrent, and he saw something in Mya’s eyes that he knew was stark fear.

She stumbled back a step, her eyes wide, and her hand on her weapon.

“What the hell was that?”

He did not respond.  He was not ordered to respond.

“Answer me!” she raged, drawing her weapon and taking another step back.  “What was that?”

“What was what?” he asked, the heat subsiding.  “I don’t know what you are asking, Mya.”

“That light!  Some kind of light though your skin!  It was like writing.  Like layers and layers of runes etched in green light.”

“That was the magic.”

“What magic?”

“The magic that makes me do as you say.  The magic that makes me strong and fast.  The magic that makes me not feel anger, or pain, or pity.”  He stared at her for a moment, and thought the rest of it was warranted.  “The magic that keeps me from killing you.”

“You must
really
hate me,” she said, her words a quivering whisper.

“No, I do not hate you.”

“But you would kill me.  If you don’t hate me, why then?”

“You are a threat to my friend.  Killing you would end that threat.”

“I have no interest in having you kill anyone, Lad.  The people I order you to kill are those the Grandfather wishes dead.  They mean nothing to me.  Your friend is safe as long as you follow my orders and don’t try any stupid little tricks like leaving messages.  Okay?”

“Yes.”  Her statement in no way lessened the threat to Wiggen, but there was no other way to respond.  Perhaps provoking Mya’s anger was not the way to get her to help him.  Maybe there was something else he could provoke.

“Good.  Now examine those,” she indicated the scrolls with a nod, “and plan the best way to kill the targets.  That means the plan that is most likely to succeed without you being identified or killed.  Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mya.”

“Good.”   She turned to leave, but Lad stopped her with a word.

“Mya?”

“If you ask me about the Grandfather again, Lad, you know what my next order will be.”  She spoke without turning, her warning smoldering like a coal.

“I was not going to ask you about the Grandfather.”

“What then?”

“Do you have a friend?”

“Do I
what
?”  She whirled and glared, clearly suspicious of another taunt.

“I want you to understand about Wiggen, why threatening her made me want to kill you.  But I don’t know if you have a friend like that.”

“I have friends,” she said, but he could hear the lie.

“Good.  Then you understand.”  He was quite sure she didn’t understand, but this strategy was safer for Wiggen.  “I do not want to see her hurt.”

“Then follow my orders.”  She turned and walked out, but Lad could hear her breathing change as she ascended the stairs beyond the door.  Before she passed totally beyond his hearing, he thought that perhaps there was another sound.  The other door squeaked open and slammed, and he could no longer hear her.  He could have been mistaken about that sound.  After all, Mya didn’t have any reason to cry.

“Come in, Captain.”  Duke Mir waved his personal guards forward.  “Guards, please wait outside.  I’m sure I’m quite safe with the commander of the Royal Guard.”

The two bodyguards bowed, turned and left.  Captain Norwood stood like a statue, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on an invisible point somewhere across the room.  He did not doubt that the Duke was safe, but his own safety might be less secure.

“At your ease, Captain.”  He rounded the desk and headed for the cabinet to his left.  “I didn’t call you in to chastise you for not finding this assassin.  I just want to get a few points across.”  He poured himself a drink without offering one to Norwood.  “Points that I think you will find interesting.”

“Yes, M’lord?”  Norwood had relaxed his stance, but still stared at the same invisible point.

“First of all, these are notes from Master Woefler regarding the samples of blood, the notes and the ribbon binding the notes to the daggers.  You may read it at your leisure, but I will tell you the gist of the report.”  He scooped up the scrolls and handed them to the Captain.  “The blood on the victims was from the victims.  The blood on the hinges of Count Dovek’s bedchamber window was from a young man whose name Master Woefler could not discern.  The same hand penned all of the notes, and the same parchment and ink was used for each note.  The person who wrote the apologies on five of the six victims was
not
the same person who wrote the notes.”

“Master Woefler can divine a name from a spot of dried blood, M’lord?”

“In most instances, yes, if that person’s name is reasonably well known.  In this instance he could say only that the blood came from a lad of about seventeen years of age.”

“Seventeen?”  Norwood’s eyes snapped from his invisible point to his lord’s in a blink.  “Just a boy?”

“So it would seem.”

“And you trust the wizard’s accuracy in this, M’lord?”  The Captain’s tone stated blatantly that he did not.

“I do, Captain Norwood, and so should you.”  He took the drink he had poured himself in one shaky hand and downed it at a gulp.  “Master Woefler is many things, but incompetent is not one of them.”

“Yes, M’lord!”  Norwood fixed his gaze once more upon infinity.

“The other point of which I wish you to be aware is this.”  Duke Mir scooped a scroll off his desk and flung it at the Captain of his Royal guard as if the piece of parchment offended him.  “This is a copy of the letter that is, as we speak, on its way to the hand of the Emperor.”

The Duke strode over to his cupboard and poured himself another brandy while Norwood read the letter.  That it was drafted by a politically minded noble was obvious; it was full of half truths, rhetoric and gushing praise concerning Duke Mir’s handling of the current crisis.  What wasn’t stated in plain language, but was evident to anyone with any experience at court, was that the Duke’s Court was dissatisfied with the performance of their lord and wanted imperial aid or a replacement.

“With all due respect to the Duke’s Court, M’lord,” Norwood said, rolling the scroll and placing it deftly upon his lord’s desk, “they’re full of horseshit.”

His tone was flatly neutral, his eyes once again fixed upon infinity.

“Really.”  Duke Mir sipped his brandy and regarded the man whose foremost job was to protect his life.  He knew Norwood, had known him for years, and he trusted his judgment in most things political and
all
things military more than any member of his court.  Which was exactly why he had called him in.  “How do you come to this conclusion?”

“First, M’lord, His Majesty the Emperor won’t even see this note for a week.  Then, if he makes a decision on how to handle it in less than three days, I’ll eat my socks with mustard and call them smoked oysters.”  That, at least, earned a smirk from the Duke, which was a good sign.  “Third, if he decides to send aid, who will he send?  It’ll take another week to find someone competent, then another week or more to get them here.”

“Almost a month.”

“Yes, M’lord.”