Weapon of Flesh (35 page)

“And when that aid arrives?”

“Well, at the current rate, we ought to be nearly out of nobility by then, M’lord, so --”

“Including ME!”

The Duke slammed his glass down on the desk, spilling brandy over the papers.  His eyes burned holes in the Captain while Norwood silently cursed himself for his glib tongue.

“I do
NOT
take this situation lightly, Captain!  One of the dead is my own nephew, a man I watched grow from a lad to a fine man with a family!  Now he’s dead, his wife a widow, and you’re unable to catch the murdering filth that buried a dagger in his eye!”

A fine man with a family – killed right after he finished busily boffing his mistress
, Norwood thought silently, eyes fixed, face impassive.

“I want a suspect, Captain,” the duke growled through clenched teeth.

“Yes, M’lord.”

“And I want some arrests!  Even if they’re trumped up!”  He sat down stiffly, scowling at the mess the alcohol had made of his neatly stacked notes.  “You must have some informants who know someone who might be involved in this mess.  Maybe some action, productive or not, will get these jackals off my back.”

“Yes, M’lord.”  Norwood remained standing, staring into nothing.  He had not been dismissed, and he’d stretched his insubordination just about as far as it would go today.

The Duke glared at him for a while longer, then finally said, “That’s all.  Now get out.”

“M’lord.”  Norwood bowed and left, running through a mental list of people he could put pressure on to produce some likely suspects, real or not.

The tiny barstool was as uncomfortable as Forbish remembered, but he sat down anyway.  He even ordered an ale, knowing it wouldn’t be to his taste.  The ale arrived just ahead of the proprietor, who he’d come to see in the first place.

“Forbish!  What are you doing here?”  Toby finished polishing a mug and stacked it on the shelf behind the bar.  “Master Hensen told you he couldn’t help you, as plain as day.  He won’t change his mind on it.”

“Don’t expect him to,” he said with a mighty shrug, sipping at the bitter ale.  He didn’t make a face, though it took some restraint.  “Came to talk to you, my friend.”

“When you say ‘my friend’ like that, I know you want something.”  The barkeep picked up another mug and began polishing with the same dirty rag.  Forbish stopped wondering why the ale tasted funny.

“No, really.  I just want to talk.”  He forced himself to sip again, just to help put Toby at ease.  “I want to get some ideas about how to find my friend.  Hensen won’t do it for me, so maybe I’ll hire someone else who will, but I can’t just ask someone without having any ideas at all, can I?”

“No, I don’t suppose you can.”  He finished and picked up another mug, eying its tarnish dubiously.  “So what do you want to know?”

“Well, it struck me strange that a man like Hensen would refuse to help me in the first place.  I offered to pay him, I mean.”  Forbish pushed two gold coins across the bar.  The price of the ale was two coppers.  “Why would a man like that turn down good coin?”

“He needs coin like I need another mortgage,” Toby said with a smirk, eying the gold.  “But he’s got good reason for not wanting to cross these people, reasons that you’re a lot safer not knowing, my friend.”

Forbish nodded, knowing that Toby was trying to save him trouble.  But trouble had already found them.  Now he was trying to get out of trouble.

“Oh, he can keep his reasons to himself, for all I care.  I just need a name, a starting point, you might say.  If I was going to hire someone to start looking, where would I have them look?”

“You’re asking
me
?”  Toby stopped polishing and leaned on the bar, lowering his voice.  “I don’t know these people, Forbish, and I don’t really want to know them.  I’ve got nothing against earning a little extra coin, but,” he pushed the money back across the bar, “I can’t give you what I don’t have.”

“Just think of that as a tip, Toby.”  Forbish pushed the money back.  “I don’t expect you to go digging into something that’s going to put you in trouble.  I just need some direction.  A name will do.”

“Well, I don’t know any off the top of my head, but I can ask around.  There are plenty of people who will think it worth taking a risk for a little money.”  He scooped up the two coins and pocketed them.  “It may take a day or two.”

“That’s all I can ask.”  Forbish pushed his tankard across the bar and stood, wincing at the punishment the stool had done to his backside.  “Just send word, or drop by the inn.  I’ll treat you to a nice lunch.”  Toby opened his mouth to protest, but Forbish cut him off with a raised hand.  “No, I won’t hear it.  Even if you find nothing, I’ll have you over for lunch.  We can talk about old times, if nothing else.”

“Sure.  I’ll come by either tomorrow or the day after.”

“See you then.”  Forbish waved and left, working the stiffness out of his backside as he climbed the stairs to the street.

“It’s a wonder the stool didn’t give way,” Hensen said at Toby’s elbow, even before the door closed behind Forbish’s considerable bulk.  “I knew he’d be back.  Good that I had him followed, otherwise I wouldn’t have been here to hear that little chat.  He’s persistent, isn’t he?”

“Yep,” Toby said, returning to his polishing.

“Well, I can’t have him poking around.”  Hensen tugged at his waistcoat and sniffed noisily.  “Sorry, Toby, but your friend has earned some gentle discouragement.”

“Do you have to hurt him?”  The barkeep’s voice was guarded; he knew Hensen could put the same kind of pressure on him as he could on Forbish.

“Oh, I’m not going to hurt him, Toby.  Don’t worry.  We’re not a bunch of muscle-bound thugs, unlike some other organizations in Twailin.”  He sniffed again and produced a tiny silver snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket.  He took a pinch and inhaled it with a snort.  “In fact, I think I’ll defer this to the authorities.”

“The authorities?  But what are you going to --”

Hensen forestalled his question with a raised finger and an explosive sneeze.  He produced an expensive handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbed his nose, smiling with satisfaction.

“Oh don’t worry so much, Toby.  I’ll just spread a little rumor and let Duke Mir’s own capable guardsmen handle the rest.”  He tucked the handkerchief away and turned to leave.  “After all, there’s a killer on the loose.  They’re bound to be interested in someone who is inquiring as to the whereabouts of said assassin, don’t you think?”

Toby kept his mouth shut and went back to his polishing as the owner of his club swaggered out of the bar.  After the man was gone, he fished the two gold coins from his pocket and dropped them in the tip jar.  The coins had grown far too heavy to keep.

 Chapter
XXI

T
he hallway was straight and narrow, sixty feet from the corner where he stood to the two men guarding the door.  Each guard held a cocked crossbow at the ready.  Flames flickered in the six oil lamps set along the length of the hall, banishing all shadows; there would be no sneaking past these guards as he had the others.  He knew there would be more guards in the room.  Mya’s reconnaissance was flawless, as always.

This was the approach most likely to succeed without his being identified or killed.  It was not the approach he would have chosen, for it was not the one most likely to achieve the goal without killing people unnecessarily.  The only difference between the tactic Mya had instructed him to take and the one he would have taken on his own was risk.  Lad was willing to risk his own safety to save even one unnecessary killing; Mya was not.  The guards were just men doing their jobs, men like Forbish, trying to earn a living and feed their families.  They probably had daughters and sons, wives and friends who would be hurt by what Lad was about to do.

But the magic would not allow him to disobey.

Lad stepped out into the corridor and walked toward the guards at an easy, relaxed pace.  He made it much farther than he thought he would before one of them raised a weapon.  He watched as the man’s fingers tightened on the trigger.

“Stop right there!” 

The man’s shout sent Lad into action.  The guard fired without hesitation, and his aim was excellent, but his target was no longer where he had aimed.  Lad careened off of first one wall, then the other as the second guard fired.  This one’s aim was even better, and Lad felt the bolt’s fletching brush his cheek in passing.

They both cleared short swords from their sheaths before he fell upon them, but the blades were useless against him.  He dodged one stroke and caught the other between his palms as his foot smashed through ribs, killing one guard instantly.  The other man released his trapped weapon and reached for a dagger, but the stolen sword slipped between his ribs before the dagger was in his grasp.

Lad stopped and listened.

Three men were moving within the room; he heard the clicks of crossbows being cocked.  No one spoke a word, which meant they were ready for him.  Their reactions would be swift and well rehearsed.

He stood to the side of the door and jiggled the handle.  Two heavy crossbow bolts smashed through the door and clattered down the hall, and he was moving even before they came to rest.  He took one step back and kicked the door into splinters.

The room was well lit, which was no surprise, and the three guards were ready for him.  The one who had not fired at his ruse did so now, but Lad was already moving, and the bolt missed by a safe margin.  He was on the guard before the man could reach another weapon, and his kick sent the man flying; either the kick or the wall that interrupted his trajectory killed him, which one, was unimportant.  The young woman in the bed screamed, but Lad ignored the noise, for the other two guards were attacking with short swords and daggers.  They fought well, and one even managed to score a gash in Lad’s arm before they both fell.

Lad turned to the girl.

“P... please,” the girl stammered, backed up to the ornate headboard, clutching the covers up to her neck.  “Don’t...”

Lad had to do as he was ordered, and what was more, he could not hesitate.  He could hear more guards coming, the ones he’d evaded earlier.  The longer he waited, the more would die.  He moved to the bedside and drew the stiletto.  If he struck quickly, she would feel no pain.  That was the best he could offer.  But as he neared her, the blankets jerked and Lad stumbled back.

He looked down.

The fletching of a crossbow bolt barely protruded from his stomach.

He felt a wave of weakness, and knew the damage was dire.  The shaft had hit something vital, and he was bleeding inside.  He would heal, but not until the shaft was removed.  He reached behind and snapped off the four inches of bolt that protruded from his back, then drew out the shaft from his stomach and dropped it.

The weakness lessened, but he had lost a good amount of blood.  The wound in the great vessel that supplied blood to his legs had closed, and his stance steadied.  He looked to the horror-struck woman in the bed.  She sat trembling, eyes flung wide open, her gaze locked on his bloody hands.  Her hands shook on the small crossbow, making its outline through the blanket evident.