Weapon of Flesh

by Chris A. Jackson

  “Damn,” Norwood muttered. They’d be lucky if the man ever recovered.

  He stepped up to the bed and looked down at the young Countess. She was a beautiful woman, but that beauty had been marred somewhat by the stiletto thrust through her eye. Her head was wreathed in crimson; her beautiful blond hair and the silken pillow to which she was pinned were both saturated with blood. There was only a slight look of surprise on her features, and the tip of the blade had actually passed through the lid of her eye. She’d been killed in her sleep. Death had been instantaneous.

  “Like a butterfly pinned in a case,” the Captain murmured, clenching his jaw against his tumultuous thoughts.

  Back to work! he thought venomously, forcing himself to examine the knife. The early-morning sun shone through the window at a sharp angle, illuminating the scene all too clearly. The blade was well made—double-edged and narrow, meant for stabbing, its crosspiece short and dark. He couldn’t see the hilt because a ribbon-bound roll of parchment had been slipped over it. The parchment wasn’t wrinkled, so it had been put there after the woman was dead. What really had the Captain scratching his chin, however, was not the fact that the Count’s wife had been stabbed through the brain while he slept next to her, nor the note left behind. He positioned himself so that his face was aligned with that of the dead woman and read the single word that had been written upon her forehead in her own blood.

  “What the --? ‘Sorry’? That’s odd.”

  “What’s that, Captain?” The sergeant paused in his inspection of the window and moved up beside his commander. “Oh, that. Yeah, that’s a real brain tease, ain’t it?”

  “The dagger, the note or the apology?”

  “I was thinkin’ you meant the blood on her forehead, Sir. I’ve seen the like before, usually from some crazy sap who don’t know what he’s doin’. But this job’s all pro. This was a pressure hit or I’m a doxy, but I never seen a professional apologize.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, Sergeant.” Captain Norwood stood straight, his blunt nails raking at his gray stubble again, reminding him that he’d been in too much of a hurry to shave this morning. “Well, I guess we should see what else this apologetic assassin has to say besides ‘Sorry,’ hadn’t we?”

  “Aye, Sir,” he agreed as his commander carefully slipped the rolled parchment off of the dagger’s hilt, untied the ribbon and read it.

  “Damn.” It was a list of names and dates. Every single one of them was a relative or loved one of Count Dovek. They all lived in Twailin and all the dates save one were in the future. The top name was that of the Count’s late wife, and there was a single line through it, and yesterday’s date. “You hit that one on the head, Sergeant. Pressure. But from whom, and to do what?”

  “Well, my guess would be to use his influence with the Duke, but to what end, beats me all to hell.” He looked at the distinguished list of names. “Pretty cocky to put dates there. They can’t be stupid enough to follow through with that schedule. We’ll be watchin’.”

  “Damn right we’ll be watching them. The next is his son the Viscount, and the date is only two days away.”

  “Do you think we should show it to the Count?”

  “He’d go catatonic, Sergeant.” He pocketed the scroll and glanced around the room. “Okay, let’s have the rest of the details. What have you got?”

  “Well, Sir, you’re not going to believe this, but the assassin came in through that window there. There’s no evidence that he used a rope or hook, or came down from the roof. The stonework’s sound, and tightly fit, so I don’t see how anyone could climb up. Magic maybe. He opened the window with a wire hook; you can see where the metal’s scratched, but there’s one thing I don’t get.”

  “What’s that, Sergeant?”

  “There’s blood on the hinges. Just the ones on the left side there, see?”

  “Yeah.” The Captain looked closely at the hinges. “Take a sample of that and give it to his Lordship’s mage. I want to know if it’s hers,” he indicated the deceased countess with a nod, “or someone else’s.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “I want two guards on Count Dovek every minute of every day until I say to stop. Is that clear, Sergeant?”

  “Crystal, Sir.”

  “I’m also putting you in charge of the duty roster for this. I’ll have to have some men pulling double shifts, but we’ve got to make sure this stops here. Understood?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Make sure this room is examined carefully. I don’t want to miss anything on this one.” He continued speaking as he moved toward the door. “I’ll be in my office, working out a watch schedule for the Duke’s Court, and wondering where I’m going to get enough men to watch all these people.” He patted the rolled parchment in his belt and left the sergeant to his work.

  In the outer chamber, the scene had devolved into one of mildly suppressed chaos; the Count was red faced and hysterical and a woman he recognized as the count’s younger sister was holding his arm, trying to calm him. There’s number three on the list, he thought. Two additional guards were at the door to the hall, holding several more royals at bay. Concerned neighbors, friends and relatives were already descending to offer support and condolences, as well as to make sure there wasn’t some inheritance or title transfer they were missing out on, no doubt.

  I wonder how many of them are on the list? he wondered before pushing his way through the crowd.

  “Wiggen?”

  Forbish tapped on his daughter’s door timidly. The usual hour of her rising had passed, but he had let her sleep late on purpose. There were only two guests staying at the inn, and Josie was now back at work and could handle the morning chores easily enough. Besides, what he had to tell Wiggen would be hard, and he was putting it off as long as he could. He knew he had to tell her what he’d found out the night before, but how? How does a father tell his only daughter, a daughter who had been through so much already, that the young man she loved was dead?

  “Wiggen?” he called softly, cracking the door and peering into her room. She rustled beneath the blankets of her bed, hair tousled, eyes blinking away sleep as they peeked over the thick down comforter.

  “What? Oh!” She noticed the angle of the sun coming through her window and instantly sat up. “I’m sorry, Father. I just didn’t wake up, I guess. Why didn’t you wake me?

  “Because I wanted to let you sleep, Wiggen.” He entered the room and shut the door quietly behind him. “I’ve got something to tell you, Honey, and I don’t know where to start.” He stood there wringing his hands, not knowing whether he should just blurt it out, or if there was some way he could break the news more gently.

  “It’s about Lad, isn’t it?” Her voice was cold, her hands clenched white on the blankets.

  “Yes. It’s about Lad.” He stepped over to the bed and sat at the foot, his broad hand covering hers on the blanket. “The man I talked to last night said he knew who had taken him.”

  “Who?” Wiggen asked, eyes wide.

  “He wouldn’t tell me. Not for any amount of money.”

  “What? Why not? Why wouldn’t he?”

  “He was afraid, Wiggen.” Forbish hadn’t really realized that fact until he said it. Hensen was terrified of whoever had taken Lad, and that was enough to terrify Forbish. “He is a very powerful man, powerful in ways that have nothing to do with law or royalty. The people he works for have their fingers in every gambling hall, tavern, brothel and shipping business in the city, and they don’t scare easy.”

  “So why was he scared, if he is so powerful?”

  “Because there are people who are even more powerful, more ruthless...” Forbish sighed and gripped his daughter’s hand. “He had a portrait of Lad, Wiggen. This other bunch of... of people were looking for him, and they were paying a lot of people to help them look.”

  “And they found him, didn’t they?” Her voice quivered, shaking with the horror of what he was telling her, but he couldn’t l
ie to her. She had to know the truth.

  “Yes, Wiggen. They found him, and they took him.”

  “But he knows! This man knows who it was!” she snapped accusatively. “We can tell the constables, and they can make him tell who took Lad. They can get him back!”

  “No, Wiggen. We can’t tell anyone what we think happened to Lad, and I’ll tell you exactly why.”

  “But Father, I --”

  “I know, Wiggen, but listen. Just listen.” He took another deep breath. “The people who took Lad are killers. Maybe they’re the same ones who threaten us, maybe not. I don’t know, but I do know that they won’t hesitate for a moment to kill anyone and everyone who tries to interfere with them. They killed Tam because he went to the authorities, and they hurt you because I was going to go to the Duke’s Guard. If we tell anyone about Lad, neither of us will live another day.”

  “But what about Lad?” Tears hovered in the crescents of her eyes, held back by sheer will. She wouldn’t cry for him; he could see her holding it back. Crying would be admitting he was gone.

  “I don’t know, Wiggen.” Forbish shook his head in sorrow. He knew Lad was as good as dead, but maybe there was a chance he could get away from these murderers. “Lad’s an amazing young man, Honey. We know he was made to be a killer, and it’s my bet that they plan to use him for that. But they never intended him to get away from his master. He’s not as blind as they wanted him to be. He won’t do their killing for them. If he has a chance, he’ll get away from them.”

  “Or they’ll kill him.” Her lip trembled with the words, her voice cracking with pain.

  “They might if they can’t control him, which is one more reason we have to stay quiet about all this. If they find out Lad cares about you, they’ll use you to get to him.”

  “But what do we do?” One tear escaped, but she wiped it away before it could make its track halfway down her scarred cheek. “We can’t just leave him!”

  “We can’t do anything, Wiggen. I’m sorry.” She tore her hand out of his grasp and rolled over, shutting him out. Her breath was deep and ragged, but still she would not cry. Still, she wouldn’t let him go. “I’m sorry.”

  Mya descended the stairs from the Grandfather’s private rooms in a rush, her stomach knotting on her breakfast and her jaw clenched so tightly that her head pounded with her racing pulse. This was not what she had hoped it would be, that much was certain. The boy had performed flawlessly, eliminating both targets he’d been told to kill the night before just as easily as the one the first night, but so far her job had been nothing more than giving instructions that the Grandfather had worked out to the most minute detail months ago. She had done no reconnaissance, no investigation, no tracking... no hunting at all! She should have known that the intended targets had been well researched ahead of time; he’d been planning this for years! Now she was nothing but a baby-sitter!

  See that the boy eats! she thought venomously. See that his clothes are cleaned! See that he continues his exercises! See that he understands the instructions! She turned a corner to the cellar stair and almost bowled over the guard who was posted there. He moved out of her way without a word and she wrenched the door open and started down. “Next it’ll be ‘See that the boy wipes his ass properly!’” she growled under her breath as the door slammed.

  She strode through the sparring room, studiously ignoring the two swordmasters from the Mercenary’s Guild waiting patiently for their morning bout with the Grandfather. He sparred every morning, she’d come to learn, usually with the best-trained professionals the martial guilds could offer. He paid handsomely for the service, and even more handsomely for services from other guilds.

  Mya shuddered with that thought, slamming the next door behind her and descending the stairs into the Grandfather’s interrogation chamber.

  “More like torture chamber,” she said to herself, slowing her pace and unlocking the door. She pushed it open carefully, though she knew not why she was showing such trepidation. Lad sat upon the same stone slab where she’d seen him bound and unconscious less than two days before. The restraints had been removed; it was now his bed. He sat placidly, legs folded, hands on his knees, his palms up and open. His eyes were closed.

  Meditation, she thought, descending the few steps to the floor and wondering why anyone would teach a weapon to meditate. Might as well teach a sword to play three-card mango!

  “I’ve got your instructions for tonight, Lad,” she stated flatly, stopping a stride in front of him. She noticed that the silk pants and shirt she’d sent down were sitting folded next to him, clean and ready to be put on. He wore only a short breechcloth, and she noticed that his skin shone with the sheen of sweat.

  He didn’t respond to her at all, even to the extent of opening his eyes. She tried a more direct approach. “You’ve been exercising?”

  He didn’t even twitch.

  Mya’s temper, left over from her less-than-satisfying breakfast with her master, suddenly burst into a rage. How dare this slave boy ignore her. She was a professional, a Journeyman in the Guild!

  “Wake up!” she shouted, but there was no more response than before. This was intolerable! “Wake UP!” Her open palm lashed across his face with a report like the crack of a coachman’s whip.

  Lad sat perfectly still as her handprint flushed red on his cheek and slowly faded.

  Mya’s anger smoldered like a bed of coals. He had been ordered to follow her commands, and now he was ignoring her. He was supposedly controlled by magic—she had seen the effect the Grandfather’s words had on him—but if he’d been ordered to obey her, why would he not?

  “You have been ordered to obey me, Lad,” she said dangerously, her hand on her dagger. “Now, open your eyes and get off that table.”

  She jumped back as his eyes suddenly snapped open and he vaulted off the table to stand perfectly still before her. His face still bore that same placid expression, as if he were half-asleep.

  “You were awake the whole time,” she snapped accusatively. “You heard every word I said!”

  He remained perfectly still, his eyes not even tracking her. She was beginning to wonder if his mind had fled, or if she were being goaded. Yes, that must be it! she realized, letting her anger ebb. He’s trying to goad me into killing him! He doesn’t want to be a slave, and he knows the only way he’ll ever be free is to die. She stood there, amazed at his stoicism.

  “Why didn’t you respond to me earlier? Answer me.”

  “You did not say or do anything that required my response,” he stated flatly, his eyes remaining fixed to a point just over her left shoulder.

  “You didn’t wake up when I ordered you to. How do you figure that didn’t ‘require your response?’”

  “I did not respond because your order could not be followed.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “I was not asleep. I could not wake up.”

  “Hmph!” She glared at him, disgusted with his childish taunt. “But you knew I wanted you to answer me. You were just being insolent.” He remained silent, a statue hewn from flesh. “You were baiting me, admit it.”

  “I do not know what you mean by ‘baiting’.” His eyes shifted slightly toward her, and then back. “I cannot answer your question.”

  “You’re still doing it. You’re trying to make me angry. I know you have enough free will to do as you wish within the bounds of your orders, Lad.” She smiled, knowing she was right in her surmise. “You hope to make me angry enough to kill you. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it’s not going to work. Now sit down. We’ve got a lot to cover before tonight, so pay attention. You have two targets to eliminate before morning.”

  “You mean two people to kill, don’t you?” He sat on the slab, legs folded, staring at her with those strange eyes of his.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. Now pay attention.” She unrolled the scroll from her belt. “The first is the nephew of Duk
e Mir himself. He is of middle age and is not in line for the Duke’s title, which is probably why he and the Duke are so close. His estate is well guarded and he is a capable fighter. He has a wife and two children, and a mistress he keeps in a flat in Westmarket. That’s where he’ll be tonight.”

  “What’s his name?

  “What? Why would you want to know that?”

  “I want to know the people I kill.”

  “Why?”

  “Because not knowing them, not caring about them, would be evil. I am not evil.”

  He said the last with such calm assurance that it took Mya off guard. She had never really thought of herself as evil, but she supposed that her profession could not really be called good or honorable. But she’d also grown up fighting everything and everyone around her just to survive; she had seen real evil, and snuffing out the lives of a few fat nobles in their sleep didn’t hold a candle in comparison.

  “His name is Treyland Vossek Mir. Happy?”

  “No, Mya. I am not happy.” He offered nothing else: no explanation, no thanks and no feeling.

  “Fine, then.” She laid the map of Westmarket flat on the slab beside him and indicated a building with her fingertip. “This is where the mistress lives. He usually takes her to one of the eating establishments nearby. They eat, share a bottle of wine and go back to her place for sex.”

  “What is that?”

  “What is what?”

  “Secks,” he said, mispronouncing the word slightly.

  “You’re joking.”

  He looked at her with eyes that seemed to her incapable of joking.

  “I am not. I do not know the word.”

  “Well, I’m not going to explain it to you.” She changed maps in a rush, pointing out the woman’s flat in the corner of the building. “She lives above a clothier. They sleep after, and that’s the best time to strike. Just wait for the sound of their breathing to change, then kill him.” She handed over the dagger he was to use. It was identical to the ones he’d used the night before.