Weapon of Flesh

by Chris A. Jackson

  “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.”

  “Aye, Sir!”

  As the man set to work, Norwood turned to his sergeant. “Tamir, our only hope on this is to get through the front gate before they can close it. We can’t besiege the place; we’re not equipped, and the losses would be too high. We’ve got to figure out a way to get inside fast, without giving them a chance to react.”

  “And without gettin’ ourselves killed, I suppose.”

  “Yes, and that. Especially that.”

  Chapter XXIX

  Mya was prowling. That was the only way you could describe it.

  She had no quarry, she was not hunting, but she was restless. She knew that what was to come would end with her either dead or free, and the anticipation of that moment had her nerves singing like violin strings.

  There were so many things that could go wrong. The timing had to be perfect: the wizard Vonlith had to remain ignorant of the plot up to the culminating moment; Lad could strike too soon, or too late; or he could have already betrayed her, as she had betrayed him more than once. But she knew in her gut that he would not. He would play this out, even at the risk of his own life. That was where the two of them differed, not in some ephemeral judgment of what was good and what was evil, but in their priorities. Mya’s priority was Mya, as it always had been, and as it always would be. As it had to be for her to survive.

  The story she’d concocted to bring the Grandfather to the interrogation chamber was paper thin, and would bear no scrutiny. One question at the wrong time would mean her death. But planning and preparing were her forte; she had laid out all possible contingencies in her mind, and planned responses should any of them occur. Unfortunately, too many of these responses involved her defending herself against the Grandfather, which would be difficult, for she could not injure him by the bonds of the ring. The best she could do in that instance was defend herself.

  So she prowled, and thought, and planned.

  And as if the Gods had decided to prove to her that one cannot prepare for every eventuality, she was utterly astounded when she heard a familiar voice ask the Grandfather’s valet for an audience.

  “Jax!” she said, descending the main stair with all the bravado she could muster. “What are you doing here? You were ordered to watch the Tap and Kettle!” Her mind raced ahead to all the reasons Jax would leave his post. All of them were bad.

  “Mistress Mya. I didn’t think you would be awake at this hour.” He bowed to her, having been informed of her new position, and having learned what happened to subordinates who did not show proper respect for their superiors. The rumors of Targus’ death were many and had grown in the telling.

  “Answer my question!” she snapped, dismissing the valet with a flick of her hand. “Why are you here?”

  “Something has happened at the Tap and Kettle that the Grandfather needs to know about,” he said. She could have thanked him for being such an evasive bastard. If he had spilled something important in front of the valet, her whole plan would have collapsed.

  “Well, it better be important, or we’re both going to regret it!” She turned her back and ascended the stairs. “Come on, Jax. Dragging your feet won’t make it easier.”

  She heard him fall in behind her, and the middle of her back began to itch where she imagined he would put a dagger. The two of them had never really gotten along, but her meteoric rise to power had thrown a log on the fire of his animosity. He answered to her because he was required to, and that was all.

  “So what has happened that you think the Grandfather needs so desperately to know that you planned on telling him without first coming to me?” She looked over her shoulder at him as they topped the first flight of stairs and started down the hall toward the second. The Grandfather’s chamber was on the third level, occupying the entire west wing. She had to have a plan for dealing with this by the time they reached the top of the stairs. “You do know you’re supposed to bring all matters to me, your direct superior, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Mistress. As I said, I thought you would be asleep.” The muscles of his jaw bunched and relaxed, lending little credence to the lie. “I sought only to ease your rest.”

  “Very thoughtful of you.” She rounded the corner and started up the stair, letting her steps slow slightly as they ascended. “Now, answer the question. What happened at the Tap and Kettle?”

  “The innkeeper’s daughter returned. The Captain of the Royal Guard knows who has orchestrated the recent murders of the Duke’s kinsmen.”

  She stopped in her tracks, two steps from the top of the stairs. As she turned to face him, she let her face register all the pent-up fear she’d been harboring since her conversation with Lad. She hoped it
was convincing.

  “The Captain of the guard knows who the Grandfather really is?”

  “He suspects. He is sending someone to investigate.”

  “This could be disastrous! You were right to come so quickly. We’ve got to stop up that leak first, then get this place looking like a merchant’s estate instead of a military camp!” She began ticking off her fingers as she gave him his orders. “Go to Jingles and get two good blades. The is still being watched by the guard, so you’ll have to be careful, but we need that girl and her fat father dead by morning. You understand?”

  “Yes, Mistress!” He seemed a bit taken aback by her prompt and direct response.

  “Good! We shouldn’t have to deal with that blockhead Captain Norwood if we get this place squared away before his goons show up. Now go!”

  “Yes, Mistress!” He turned to go.

  There is a spot at the base of the skull where the spinal cord enters. It is no larger than the tip of a man’s finger. A tiny target, and so, not often used. But it affords the advantage, when penetrated by a thin blade, of severing virtually every nerve in the body in a single stroke. The victim does not cry out, as death is instantaneous.

  Mya’s aim was perfect.

  The thin stiletto snicked through Jax’s gray matter with a quick flip of her wrist. His body crumpled, and she pulled him backward into her arms without a sound, lest he tumble down the stairs. His body twitched spasmodically as she rolled him over, obsolete nerve impulses dying without reaching their appointed destinations. She left the stiletto in place, for that was another disadvantage to this method; the heart, bereft of direction from the brain, would continue beating until it died for lack of oxygen. If she removed her blade, blood would drench her, the stairs and everything else. As it was, she only got a bit on her hand. Now her only problem was to hide the body.

  She felt for a pulse at his neck, and when it faded to nothing she made sure there was no bleeding around the blade, rolled him back onto his back and pulled him into a sitting position. This was the dangerous part; she had to pull him up and over her shoulder in order to carry him to her chamber, but he weighed a good bit more than she. Every apprentice assassin was trained in the technique, since carrying the fruits of their labors was a common task of the profession. Jax wasn’t a particularly large or heavy man, but Mya was more than a hand shorter and several stones lighter. She could lift the weight, she was sure, but the danger lay in the uneven footing. If she fell on the stairs...