Weapon of Flesh (51 page)

“You heard her, Tamir,” Norwood said, stepping off the porch of the
Tap and Kettle
and starting across the courtyard.  “What do you think about her story?”

“It is a mite hard to swallow, Sir, I’ll give you that.  But I don’t think she was lying.  And she’s right about one thing: it don’t pay to just say she’s crazy as a bedbug and leave it at that.”  The sergeant cracked his knuckles loudly as they reached the street and the waiting Imperial carriage.  “Might not hurt to have a little talk with Master Saliez tonight, just to check her story.”

“And if she is right about all this, it might hurt a great deal,” Norwood countered, turning to face his subordinate with a knitted brow.  “If we walk in there and start asking questions of the good Master Saliez, and he does have something to do with this mess, we can kiss goodbye any chance we ever had of finding out the truth.”  He scratched the stubble on his chin and grimaced at the thought of the choice he had to make.

“I got a man in my squad what used to hunt quail, Sir.”

“What’s that got to do with anything, Sergeant?” he asked, taken aback by the apparent non-sequitur comment.

“Well, Sir, you gotta be real quiet and real steady to get close enough to a covey of quail to cast your net with any hopes of gettin’ any birds.  Strikes me that we’re tryin’ to do just about the same thing here, get close enough to have a look without spookin’ the quarry.”

“He’d never be able to get inside the estate, but it might be useful to have a look.  If there’s more to this fellow than those high-priced trinkets he imports, it might be worth the nine shades of hell I’ll get for bursting in there with sword in hand.”  Norwood nodded and mounted his carriage.  “Have him look around, Sergeant, but make damn sure he knows he’s not to be seen.  The last thing we need is to tip our hand.”

“Aye Sir,” the sergeant said, saluting as his commander climbed into the carriage.  He stepped back as it rolled away, then turned and walked back to the inn to carry out his orders.  He did not notice the patch of shadow that moved away down the street toward the affluent neighborhood of Barleycorn Heights.

Lad heard the door open.  He hadn’t been able to sleep and his attempts at meditation had failed miserably, largely due to his recurrent recriminations for his utter failure.  He had failed Wiggen, he had failed himself, and he had failed every other soul who would be tormented by the Grandfather’s cruelty in the future.

He kept his eyes closed, not really feigning sleep, but not wanting to open them, though he didn’t know why.  Whoever had entered the interrogation chamber approached with footfalls that were virtually silent.  That ruled out the Grandfather, for he was utterly silent, and the mage Vonlith, for he bore no semblance of stealth in any of his movements.  That left a very short list of who would be creeping into this room so late at night.

Mya wasn’t the type to gloat.  If she was here, she was here for a reason, but he was not in the mood to talk.

Especially with her.

He doubted if she would give him the option, so, when she was close, he said, “What do you want, Mya?”

“I’m curious,” she said, coming to stand right beside him.

He finally opened his eyes.  She wore the same crimson robe; her hair was pinned back this time, but still draped to her shoulders.  The last remnants of her torment under the Grandfather’s hands had vanished, at least those on the surface.  She was looking down at him, her eyes traveling up and down his torso as if scanning him for flaws.  Her curiosity for some reason annoyed him, but there seemed to be no advantage to antagonizing her, so he said, “About what?” 

“About these.”  She ran a finger down the newest row of tattoos that lay livid upon his chest.  The ink was as black as night and would never fade; the invisible ink had been a trick of his former master, Corillian.  Vonlith hadn’t the same subtlety, but the runes, and the magic in them, were the same.  The new tattoos were also quite tender, and her touch elicited a flinch of pain.  “Do they hurt much?”

“Only when someone touches them,” he admitted, not bothering to keep the annoyance from his voice.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to --”

“Didn’t mean to hurt me?” he asked incredulously.  “You trick me into a lifetime of slavery with your own torment as the price, and you expect me to believe that you give a good God’s damn about my pain?  Go away, Mya.  Go sit and stare at that ring on your finger that you bought with your soul.  See how many friends, how much love and devotion your new power grants you.”

“I didn’t want it,” she said, her voice far too calm, too resigned to her fate.

“Then why accept it?  Why ever step into the position in the first place.  Why not just disappear?  Your skills are that good, if not good enough to deserve the title of Master.  You could have walked away, Mya, but you decided to serve him. 
Him
!  Why, Mya?  Why would you
ever
do what you have done, not only to me, but to yourself?”

“Simple,” she said, meeting his eyes for the first time since she’d arrived.  “I’m a slave.  Slaves don’t have choices.”

“You had a choice.”

“Maybe.”  She held up her hand and looked at the band of polished obsidian that encircled her finger.  “No longer.  I must follow his orders.”

“The ring compels you?”

“No, but if I fail to serve him, he will kill me, and the ring does prevent me from raising a hand against him, even to save myself.  The rings of the masters assure that those who are most skilled within the guild do not practice their trade upon their own master.”  She dropped her hand to her side and tried to smile.  She managed a weak grimace.  “I must serve him, or die.”

“To what end?”

“Whatever end he sees fit for me, I suppose.”

“Death?”

“Eventually, but death takes us all in the end anyway.”

“It’s not that we die, Mya, but
how
we die that matters.”

“I imagine I’ll die by treachery then.”

“And how we live.  That matters.”

“Does it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?  And don’t give me that flap about the God’s judgment.”

“How we live defines us, Mya.  I am a killer, but not willingly.  I am also someone’s friend, and someone’s lover.  That is who I am.  You can make me a slave, and even take away my memories with magic, but you can’t change what I am.”

“You’re also quite a philosopher.  I never would have expected it from you.”

“Maybe we are more than others expect from us.  What are you?”

“I told you, I am a slave.”

“Only because you choose to be.”

“I told you, slaves have no choices.”

“You’re wrong, Mya.  You have the power to free yourself, just as you have the power to free me.”

“I cannot harm my Master, Lad,” she said holding up her hand, the ring dark on her pale flesh.  “I am bound to serve him.”

“But I am not.”  Her eyes widened a trifle with that, just enough to let him know his point had scored.  “At least not yet.  I can free you from him.”

She looked down at him a long time, thinking.  Her eyes moved to the iron straps that bound his neck, arms and legs.  There were nine in all, each held in place with iron pins.  He could see her thinking of a way, the plan taking shape in her mind.

“There would be only one chance.  You would have to kill him instantly, or he will kill us both.”

He could hear the fear in her, and strangely felt the lack of it in himself.  “Now or later, it doesn’t matter, Mya.  What does matter is time.  What time is it?”

“About half between dusk and midnight.  Why?”

“If I am to do it, it must be soon, or we will
all
die.”  He was taking a horrible risk telling her, but it was the only chance he had.

“What?”  Her eyes widened again, this time in astonishment. 

“I have not returned in time.  Everything I know, the captain of the Royal Guard now knows.”

“By the Gods!  They’ll overrun the place.”

“Yes.”

She cast around the room and left his side.  He watched her rummage among the wizard’s things; she returned with a long black candle.  “You have to wait for the right moment, Lad.  It will be soon, Vonlith is resting, but will resume his work shortly.  I’ll bring the Grandfather, but you have to wait.”

“I will wait.”  He watched her set to work, steeling his nerves against the task that lay before him.  She finished her work and left without another word, her steps as soft going as they had been coming.

Lad lay there, thinking, preparing himself.  One by one he flexed and relaxed every muscle from his scalp to his toes, willing them to lie quiescent until he called upon them.  He set his mind into a careful light meditation, one that would be broken by the slightest sound, scent or tremor in the stone beneath him.  And most of all, he nurtured the fear, the pain and yes, even the hatred that lay deep within him for the thing that was called The Grandfather of Assassins.

The man who stood before Captain Norwood’s desk wore not the uniform of a Royal Guardsman, but dark leathers and the soft boots of a woodsman.  He was tall and lanky, and moved with a certain grace that the captain found somewhat unsoldierly.  He would have thought him a liability without Sergeant Tamir’s recommendation.  Now what this dubious example of a man would tell him was to guide his career.

The thought made Norwood shiver with distaste.

“Well, let’s have it.  You found the place readily enough, I guess.”

“Oh, aye, Sir.  I’d seen it before, so that weren’t no fuss.”

“And did you notice anything peculiar?”

“Oh, aye.  The place is set up like a fortress, Sir.  There’s more guards walkin’ the walls than there are at the Duke’s Palace, and I’m not exaggeratin’ one bit!  Six on the main gate, and pairs walkin’ at odd intervals around the walls.  Mercenaries, I’d guess.  At least they don’t wear no livery.  The place is sewn up tighter than a merchant’s purse.”

“Seems quite a lot of security for a businessman,” Norwood said, clenching his jaw.  There was still precious little evidence that the girl Wiggen’s story was accurate.  The master of the Assassin’s guild, if there really were such a guild, would hardly be likely to live in such an ostentatious estate.

“Oh, aye, Sir.  Looked like he was preparin’ for a siege.”

“Was there anything else peculiar?”

“Well, there was quite a bit of traffic goin’ in and out for this time of night.  There was even a wagon parked in the courtyard, and not just a coach, but a big ornate thing with gold and silver writin’ all over it.  I couldn’t read none of it.  It seemed a bit flashy, even for the likes of some rich merchant.”

“Gold and silver writing on a wagon?”  Norwood hated mysteries worse than toothaches, and this one was killing him.

“Sounds like a wizard’s wagon,” Tamir offered.  “I’ve seen some like that come and go out of Northgate.  Tells everyone not to mess with ’em, I guess.”

“A wizard?”  He rubbed his tired eyes and swore under his breath.  “What the hell would an assassin want with a... magic...

“Holy Gods of Light and Darkness!”  Norwood gasped, lurching to his feet.  “He’s got him!  He’s got him back and he’s having a mage put the spells back in place.  That’s got to be it!”

“The boy?”

“That’s right, Tamir.  It’s the only thing that makes sense!  If they’d killed him, why the wizard?  But if they captured him...  A shrewd man, one who’d put years and thousands in gold into an investment that had yet to pay off, might try one last time to make it work.”

“But if they do put the magic back on him...”

“Then Wiggen’s prophesy will come true.  Nobles will start dying again.”

“What do we do, Captain?”

“We go in there and make sure it doesn’t come true.”

“When?”

“First light, Tamir.  We’ll have an advantage in the daylight.”  He stood up and retrieved a clean roll of parchment from his shelf.  “But we’re not taking any chances on this one.”  He pushed his inkwell and quill across the desk toward the lanky guardsman whose importance had suddenly transcended his captain’s original estimation.  “I want an accurate rendering of the estate, where every guard was, what perimeter defenses they have and anything else you can remember.”