Weapon of Fear (Weapon of Flesh Trilogy II Book 1)

by Chris A. Jackson

  “What about the jailor? Isn’t that his job?” His attention shifted back to Otar. “Has he been questioned about all this?”

  The captain looked stricken, stammering out his reply. “Not yet, milord. We found him out cold in an unlocked cell, drunk. And not for the first time, if the pile of empty bottles is any indication. We’ll question him as soon as he is capable of answering.”

  Arbuckle wondered at captain’s agitated reply, then recognized the man’s fear. Under Tynean Tsing II, he would have been punished for failing to have all the answers. I’m not like my father! “My apologies, Captain. Do carry on, and keep me informed.”

  “Of course, Milord Prince.”

  “Master Corvecosi, thank you for your insights.”

  “It’s my pleasure to serve you, milord.” The healer stood, then nodded to the prince’s hands. “Would you like me to heal your blisters before I go?”

  Arbuckle shook his head. “Thank you, but I’ll keep the reminder of a deed well done for a while longer.” Arbuckle flexed his hands, remembering the satisfying crash of the torture devices shattering under his blows. My father’s legacy…

  A smile flashed across Corvecosi’s lips before the two men bowed, then left.

  Arbuckle flexed his hands again. “So, Tennison…”

  “Yes, Milord Prince!” The secretary hurried to the prince’s side, his ledger already open and his pen poised above the page.

  “Relax, Tennison. It’s nothing urgent. I only wanted to ask your opinion.”

  “My…what?” The secretary looked startled.

  “Your opinion.” Arbuckle had always considered Tennison an pretentious prig, but now the truth shone clear in his pinched face. He’s frightened. This is my father’s true legacy—fear. “I must announce my father’s death, but I’m wondering how to do it. I’ll draft an announcement to be sent to the nobles, of course, but simply posting a notice to inform the commoners seems…insufficient.”

  “It is dire news. They will be…devastated.”

  “Devastated?” Arbuckle fixed Tennison with an incredulous stare. “Is that really what you think the common folk of this city will feel at the news?”

  “I…” Tennison swallowed with effort.

  “Tennison, relax!” Arbuckle stood, but the man remained rigid with terror, obviously unconvinced that he wasn’t being lured into a trap. Time to change that. “You needn’t be afraid of me. I’m not my father! I need you, above anyone else, to tell me the truth.”

  “I…” The man blinked and swallowed. “I will, milord.”

  “Good. Now, tell me how I inform the commoners of the emperor’s death. They deserve something more than a mere statement. An apology, an explanation…something.”

  A boyhood memory flashed in his mind, the face of a pretty young girl, the daughter of the chambermaid who had cleaned his room since he was a babe. The girl had accompanied her mother to work one day, and a young Prince Arbuckle had been delighted to meet another child. His father had nipped the friendship in the bud, lecturing his son on the impropriety of nobility mingling with commoners. “Subjects are to be subjugated, not befriended!” Arbuckle never saw the girl again, and a new chambermaid cleaned his room the next day. He wondered where the girl and her mother had disappeared to, and tried not to picture the poor tortured woman in the dungeon.

  “They deserve more.” Arbuckle began to pace. “They’ve been through hell at my father’s hand, and need to know they can expect better from me.”

  “So…tell them that, milord.”

  Tennison’s simple solution struck Arbuckle like a thunderbolt. “Of course!” He flicked an impatient hand at the secretary’s leger. “I’ll personally announce the emperor’s death! We need someplace public, and large enough to accommodate many!”

  The secretary’s brows arched in surprise, his feather quill quivering over the leger. “Milord, I didn’t mean—”

  “No, it’s perfect!” Arbuckle warmed to the proposal. “Draft posters to be distributed throughout the city immediately. I will appear at the Imperial Plaza this afternoon to make an important announcement. See to the details for transportation and security.”

  “Yes, Milord Prince.” Tennison still looked horrified, but there was something else there, too.

  Hope? Arbuckle wondered. The thought brought a smile. Yes…that’s what the commoners need. They need hope.

  Chapter III

  At the chime of the doorbell, Dee dropped his polishing rag. With Lad off to Tsing, there wasn’t much for him to do. The continuing investigation into the murder of Lad’s wife was running without much help. Collating the information in preparation for Lad’s return was his only real guild-related duty for the time being. Desperate to be busy, Dee had resorted to touching up the silver. Answering the door came as a welcome break.

  Peeking through the lens mounted in the center of the door, however, Dee thought the break might not be so welcome after all. A hooded acolyte stood on the stoop, probably seeking a contribution.

  “I’m so sorry, good brother,” Dee said as he opened the door. “My master’s out of town, and I’m not authorized to give donations in his stead. Perhaps if you come back when—”

  “I know your master’s not home, and I’m not here for a donation. I’m here on guild business, and I’ll not discuss it on the stoop.” The man’s scowl was clearly not intended to entice generosity, and his face was unfamiliar.

  Dee had been fooled once before by a spy in a clever disguise, and had vowed that would never happen again. However, if the man was actually a guild messenger, this certainly was not something to discuss on the stoop.

  Stepping back, he waved the visitor in. “I have no idea what guild you’re talking about, but if you have business, you may come into the foyer.” If this was a trick to get entry for some nefarious motive, the man would be in for a surprise. Dee could summon two Enforcers in seconds. He closed the door and confronted the alleged acolyte, his arms crossed. “Now, what’s this about?”

  “Who’s in charge of the Twailin guild?” The demand came without warning, and in a tone intended to intimidate.

  Dee wasn’t.

  “I don’t know you, sir, and I don’t know what guild you keep referring to. I’ll have your name and business, or you’ll be out the door this instant.”

  The acolyte pushed the hood back off of his head, giving Dee his first good look at his features. The man’s pate was shaved smooth, his features were angular, and his eyes cold. When he spoke, his tone came as sharp as a newly whetted razor.

  “My name is Hoseph. I’m the personal assistant to the Grandmaster of the Assassins Guild. You are the assistant to Guildmaster Lad of the Twailin Assassins Guild. You need to tell me who’s in charge of the Twailin guild in your master’s absence.”

  Dee tensed, but maintained his long-practiced composure as his mind raced. Personal assistant to the Grandmaster! The claim seemed incredible, but rang true, given the man’s knowledge of Lad’s identity. It also explained why he seemed unaccustomed to being questioned. “Master Blade Sereth was put in temporary command.”

  “Very well. Have him here at this time tomorrow so that I may speak with him.”

  That didn’t sound good at all. Why would the Grandmaster’s assistant be here in Twailin when Lad was visiting the Grandmaster in Tsing? Had something happened to Lad and Mya? “May I tell him what this is in regard to?”

  Hoseph stared for a moment, his eyes as blank as a viper’s. Finally he said, “Tell Master Sereth that the Grandmaster of the Assassins Guild has been murdered by Guildmaster Lad and Master Hunter Mya. These traitors are to be sought and apprehended. I’ll give Master Sereth the rest of the details tomorrow.”

  “What the—”

  Before Dee could complete his question, his visitor flipped a gleaming silver trinket from his sleeve, uttered a word, and dissolved into a swirling cloud of black mist.

  “Gods of Light and Darkness!” Dee staggered back as the last of the vapor
dissipated, the implications of the man’s visit and startling exit struck him. Black mists… Hoseph was the priestly assassin Lad had warned them about, the man who had twice interfered in the investigation of Wiggen’s death, once by killing Baron Patino, and again when he tried to kill Lad’s informant.

  The thought worked like a key in his agile mind. Details fell into place like a row of tumblers. Kiesha—click! Patino—click! Black mists—click! Hoseph—click! The Grandmaster dead… The key stuck there, refusing to open the door on the final truth.

  Dee tried to work it out. If Hoseph didn’t want Lad to solve Wiggen’s murder, and he works for the Grandmaster, then…did the Grandmaster have something to do with Wiggen’s death?

  Lad had vowed to kill whoever was responsible, and Hoseph had said that Lad and Mya had killed the Grandmaster. The theory made sense, but in reality, Lad and Mya couldn’t lay a hand on the Grandmaster. The rings they wore wouldn’t allow it.

  It doesn’t matter. The Grandmaster was dead, and the guild blamed Lad and Mya. Oh, there’s going to be all Nine Hells to pay for this.

  Dee hurried to the back of the house. The two Enforcers sat at the table drinking blackbrew and flirting with the pretty kitchen maid, who promptly curtsied and scurried off.

  “I’m going out for a while.” Dee grabbed his suitcoat. “Don’t allow anyone into the house.” He dashed out before they could ask any questions.

  Outside, Dee slowed to a dignified stroll. He was a gentleman’s assistant, and he had to maintain that image. At this time of morning the streets were bustling, so he had no trouble flagging down a hackney. Sereth’s fencing salon wasn’t far, just on the edge of Barleycorn Heights, but Dee hadn’t taken the time to change from his house shoes to walking shoes. Truth be told, the hills in this part of town wore him out. Years spent working for Mya, and now Lad, had softened his muscles. But then, he’d always been more assistant than assassin. He gave the driver the address and climbed aboard.

  Leaning back against the carriage cushions, Dee’ mind wandered to his two masters. He’d enjoyed working for Mya. The Master Hunter was intelligent, sharp-witted, and unfailingly loyal to her people. The youngest Master Hunter ever in Twailin, she had earned their loyalty in return. Secretly, Dee had harbored a decidedly unprofessional infatuation for his boss, even though he knew nothing could ever happen. He had often watched her cast glances at Lad and wondered if something might be going on between them, but he now knew that Lad was utterly devoted to his family.

  Lad… Being the guildmaster’s assistant was an entirely different experience. No less gratifying, but challenging. There was an intensity to Lad that Dee found both unnerving and thrilling to be around. Working for someone who could snap you like a twig—a living weapon in emotional agony, no less—was daunting. Still, Dee’s empathy for the man who had lost his wife firmed his resolve to help him in any way he could.

  The hackney pulled up in front of Sereth’s studio, and Dee was out the door before it even came to a halt. He tossed the driver a silver crown.

  The driver caught it deftly. “Thank’e, sir!”

  Sereth’s assistant, Lem, answered the door and let Dee in. The Master Blade was sparring with a student, so Dee stood out of the way, forcing himself to relax and consider what he knew about the man.

  When Mya had been warring with the other guild factions, Dee had dug up all he could about the masters and their people. As Master Blade Horice’s bodyguard, Sereth had been high on the list. Though an accomplished swordsman, he preferred short blades to long, was hard-working, and until recently lived in a dreary apartment in the Docks District. More recently, he’d discovered that Sereth had a wife who had been held hostage by the Thieves Guild. Lad had helped free her, and had sworn Dee to silence about the entire affair. For that alone, Sereth owed Lad his loyalty.

  The pace of the sparring shifted. At first glance, the fencing master and his student had appeared evenly matched, but suddenly, in a lightning exchange, Sereth scored several touches, one to each leg, one wrist, and a fourth that cracked the student’s wire mask hard enough to snap his head back.

  “Enough!”

  At Sereth’s command, the student immediately stopped and took off the wire mask. A shock of blonde hair and sweetly rounded face proclaimed that the student was, in fact, a young woman, not a young man.

  “Very good, Lady Racine, but you’re guarding your core overmuch and leaving openings elsewhere.”

  “You’re so fast!” She was breathing hard, her face glowing with sweat. “I couldn’t cover everything.”

  “Then get faster.” Sereth noticed Dee. “I’m afraid we’re out of time for now, but remember; speed comes with practice. Practice at home with a metronome as I showed you, and keep increasing the tempo. I’ll see you in two days.”

  “Thank you, Master VonBruce.” She saluted and racked her practice sword, and Lem helped her remove her thick plastron.

  “Master VonBruce.” Dee strode forward and executed a respectful bow. “My master sends his regrets that he’ll be unable to attend his upcoming lesson. He’d like to reschedule if possible.”

  “I’ll have to check my appointment book. Come with me.” Sereth led Dee from the studio into a small office, closed the door, and offered him a seat. “What’s happened?”

  “Do I look that upset?” Dee prided himself on his ability to maintain an unruffled façade.

  “No, but you never just pop in unexpectedly. I figured something was up.”

  “Something is. I just had a visitor.” Dee quickly related the story of Hoseph’s visit and his ideas of the priest’s involvement in recent events.

  “Mother of...” Sereth’s oath trailed off, and his eyes drifted down to his hands.

  “How could they kill the Grandmaster? Is it even possible?”

  Sereth glanced up. “If anyone could do it, I’d bet on Lad and Mya.” To Dee’s raised eyebrows, he said, “You didn’t see them at Fiveway Fountain. They fought like...nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

  “But what about the Grandmaster’s ring? How could they even touch him?”

  “I don’t know, but there was Saliez...”

  Of course, Dee remembered. The Grandfather. According to rumor, the former Twailin guildmaster had been killed by Lad, despite magical constraints that prohibited him from harming the man who had contracted him to be made.

  Dee took a deep breath. “What are you going to do?”

  “Meet with Hoseph.” The Master Blade seemed surprised at the question. “I would be foolish to refuse.”

  “If I can point something out without getting killed…” Dee crooked a smile to make sure Sereth knew the comment was in jest.

  “Go ahead.”

  “We owe no allegiance to this Hoseph fellow. He’s not in the chain of command. If the Grandmaster truly is dead, our loyalty is to Lad.”

  Sereth pursed his lips. “It’s more complicated than that, Dee. If Lad and Mya did somehow kill the Grandmaster, then they’re traitors to the guild.”

  “But if the Grandmaster’s dead, who’s calling the shots?” Dee couldn’t believe he was hearing this. “Your life doesn’t belong to Hoseph, it belongs to Lad.”

  “I need to think about this before I make a decision.”

  “But he saved your—”

  “Enough!”

  Dee tensed. He’d expected more loyalty from Sereth, but he couldn’t flout his orders. Lad had put the Master Blade in charge.

  Sereth stood and opened the door, a clear signal that their meeting was over. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning at Lad’s house.”

  Dee nodded in assent, unsure whether he had masked his apprehension, and left. To him, the matter was simple. His loyalty belonged to Lad, not some nebulous dead Grandmaster in far-off Tsing. But he didn’t dare alienate the Master Blade. Should Sereth be appointed guildmaster, Dee would have no choice but to work with him.

  Or die.

  Arbuckle strode into the Great Hall, his blademasters in ti
ght formation around him, and stopped short. The cavernous chamber seemed to have shrunk, so filled was it with imperial guards, knights, and squires, all clad in gleaming armor and weapons. The herald announced his entrance, and the entire room bowed as one. A flutter of apprehension mixed with pride filled him. These men and women were sworn to him, and with them he would banish his vile father’s shadow.

  Struggling to maintain a composed mien, Arbuckle announced, “It’s time, Captain Otar.”

  “Milord Prince.” Otar stepped forward and lowered his voice. “This is unwise. You put yourself in peril needlessly. Your father would never have—”

  “I am not my father, Captain. The sooner you accept that, the better we will get along. Besides,” Arbuckle tugged at the hem of his dress doublet, a bit snug now that he wore a fine chainmail shirt beneath it, “with all of you around me, I’m well protected.”

  “Heralds could just as easily announce the emperor’s death, milord,” Otar argued.

  “No, Captain, they couldn’t. Heralds and posters are impersonal. I must show the populace that things will change.” Arbuckle smiled to the captain. “But thank you for pointing out that my father would never do this. Now I’m certain it’s the right thing to do.”

  “If you say so, Milord Prince, but I’d have my objection to this foray noted.” Otar nodded to the imperial scribe hovering just outside Arbuckle’s cordon of blademasters. The man’s pen was busy as always, recording every word.

  “So noted, Captain. Now, I’ll say a few words before we leave.” Arbuckle stepped up onto the gilded dais at the head of the room and scanned the assembled crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen.” Every eye snapped to him, and Arbuckle felt a twinge of apprehension. He was unused to making speeches.

  Just tell them the truth.

  “This the start of a new era. For more than forty years, Tsing has been ruled with an iron fist. That reign of tyranny is over. I am not my father, and things are going to change. We will maintain order, but we will institute justice as well. Every citizen of Tsing deserves the same rights. With your help, I intend to give them those rights.”