Weapon of Pain (Weapon of Flesh Series Book 5)

by Chris A. Jackson

  Mya’s anticipation waned. “Dirty towels?”

  The woman’s dark eyes blinked quickly. “Yes. But the laundry’s closed this late at night, and when I took over, I was told that the towels had already been taken out.”

  “Maybe there’s a bin at the laundry to put them in after hours?”

  “Maybe, but he was carrying them bundled in his arms instead of over his shoulder in a sack. The towels are always in a sack, and we’ve never seen two deliveries to the laundry in one day.”

  Mya sighed. It was probably nothing, but any anomaly bore looking into. Since the watcher couldn’t abandon her post to follow the man, it was up to Mya. “When did he leave?”

  “Only about five minutes ago, right after the rains quit. He went downhill. The laundry is that way, but so is the man’s flat.”

  “Where does he live and what does he look like?”

  The Blade rolled onto her side and withdrew a tiny notebook from a waxed leather pouch at her belt. From beneath her collar, she pulled out a garnet hung on a chain around her neck. Closing her fist around the gem, she whispered “Light!” Red light glowed from between her fingers, bright enough to read by, but dim enough not to be noticed from afar or ruin her night vision. “His name’s Hanz Brolly, and he lives at twenty-one Greenhollow Street, Midtown, second floor. The laundry’s four more blocks down the hill on the same street. He’s tall, wide shoulders, long blond hair pulled back in a queue, very good-looking. I imagine he’s pretty popular with the rich old ladies who come here for a massage.”

  Mya smiled at the young woman’s commentary and patted her on the shoulder. “Good work. I’ll check it out.”

  “Thanks.”

  Mya worked her way back over the crest of the roof and down to the street, then down the hill into Midtown, moving quickly. If Brolly had gone straight home, he’d be there by now, but if he had gone to the laundry, he probably wouldn’t be back yet.

  Twenty-one Greenhollow Street was an unremarkable building, well-built but not fancy. That he lived in the Heights suggested that massaging rich old ladies was profitable.

  Or Hanz is making extra gold on the side. Perhaps this wouldn’t be just another wild goose chase.

  Mya tucked into a shadowed spot across the street and inspected the building. Shops occupied the street level with apartments above. Wooden staircases climbed each end of the structure, punctuated by landings with doors to several apartments. A light illuminated a second-story window. He’d either come straight home or lived with someone.

  The click of a door latch and the creak of a hinge drew her attention. A wedge of light swept the second-story landing, silhouetting a figure for just a moment before the door closed. Feet thumped on the stairs, and a man emerged onto the street. Above, the light in the window went out. Either Brolly did indeed have a roommate, or this wasn’t him.

  Mya peered more closely at the man as he stepped onto the street. He wasn’t particularly tall or broad-shouldered, and he certainly wasn’t blonde or what she—or anyone with two eyes and reasonably good taste—would consider good looking. Though he wore no weapon that Mya could see, his left hand hovered about his waist, and his jacket was bulky enough to hide just about anything short of a broadsword. Casually sweeping his eyes left and right, he crossed with a quick, confident stride to the shadowed side of the street, avoiding street lamps as he approached the next intersection, crossed, and faded into shadow again.

  If he’s not an assassin, then I’ll eat my cap. Time to hunt.

  Mya followed, staying quiet and hidden. Stalking prey was one of a Hunter’s first lessons, and Mya excelled at her trade. She followed the man back uphill into the Heights, keeping him barely in sight, listening to his steady steps, freezing in shadow whenever he turned to look around.

  After about eight blocks, he ducked into the alley and disappeared from view. Mya had just reached the alley when the click of his boots on the cobbles suddenly stopped, and knuckles rapped a distinct tattoo against wood. Peering around the corner, she glimpsed the man at the back door of a shop. The door opened, and dim light illuminated him.

  “You’re late,” said a feminine voice.

  “The rain,” replied the man as he slipped inside and the door closed.

  Mya dashed forward, low and quiet, her footfalls a faint pat-pat on the wet cobbles. She crouched near the door he’d entered and cocked her head to listen. The voices were muffled, but when she pressed her ear to the wood, they became clear.

  “Here, I’ll take that. The bathhouse, right?”

  “Yeah. A week’s payment. Hey, I’m soaked. How about a whiskey before I go?”

  Mya smiled. Follow the money… She didn’t recall seeing a pin in this block on Clemson’s map, so this must be a new money drop. One more link in the chain that would lead them to the Master Inquisitor.

  Glass clinked within the building.

  “Thanks, that’s good. Damn rain. Nothing ever dries out this time of year.”

  “At least you get some fresh air. I’ve been stuck in here for days.”

  The man chuckled. “At least you’re dry. Why don’t you slog through the rain running collections and I’ll babysit?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “How is the brat, anyway?”

  Mya’s ears perked up.

  “A pain in the ass. Nobles…”

  They’re keeping one of the boys here!

  “Why not just drug him senseless?”

  “Because I’m not stupid. Orders are to keep him drugged enough to be happy, but not out.”

  The man laughed low and something clicked, then thumped. “Thanks for the drink. I better go.” The voice came louder. A door had opened inside.

  “Watch your back.”

  “Always.” The voice was right on the other side of the door now.

  Mya skittered back and crouched behind a bin full of trash just as the door latch clicked. The man emerged and started up the alley. She’d let him go; he was just a collection runner. No doubt he’d have information on Lakshmi’s businesses, but snatching him would only alert the Inquisitors that they’d been found out. She considered kicking in the door and staging a rescue, but blundering in could get her, the kid, or both of them killed. If they didn’t know that they’d been discovered, then they probably wouldn’t move him. She had time to plan.

  As the man walked past her, he brought along muddled scents, sweet and heavy, stronger even than the trash. Not until he passed around the corner did the pungent scent fade into the sultry air.

  Odd that I didn’t smell that while I was following him.

  Mya frowned as she looked up and down the alley at the row of identical doors. She had to know exactly which shop front around the other side of the block matched this door. Unfortunately, without seeing through walls, that seemed impossible. She edged forward again and put a hand on the door handle. It was locked, of course. She might be able to pick it, but…

  That muddle of aromas tickled her nose again. Leaning down to the keyhole, Mya inhaled deeply. Flowers, musk, fruit, and myriad other pleasant odors vied for attention. Perfume?

  She left the door and rounded the block, crossing the street again to stay in shadow as she examined the store fronts. The Scent of Beauty perfumery was situated in the center of a block of high-end shops. Mya memorized the address. Someone would have to scout out the business, determine the layout inside, before they mounted a rescue.

  And I know just the person.

  I’m going to kill Mya, Dee vowed as he adjusted the frothy lace cravat at his throat.

  Dee flounced up to the perfumery door, dabbing a lace handkerchief to the sweat on his forehead and heaving a gusty sigh as he entered. “It’s simply unbearable outside!” he declared to no one in particular, fluttering the handkerchief to cool himself.

  Two elderly ladies garbed in finery and wide-brimmed hats glanced at him with little interest, then looked back at the shelves of bottles. The primly dressed woman waiting on them smiled at
him.

  I’ll be with you in a moment, sir. Please feel free to look around.”

  “Thank you, dear.” He waved his lace handkerchief again and set about perusing the shelves of bottled scents.

  Dee suspected that Mya took great delight in dressing him up as a dandy for this reconnaissance mission. She’d shown far too much amusement as she plucked his eyebrows and dabbed rouge on his cheeks.

  “You’re perfect for this,” she had insisted. “I can’t do it with every assassin is looking for me, and I don’t trust a Blade or Enforcer to do a Hunter’s job. It’s got to be you, Dee.”

  So here he was, sampling one perfume after another until the air was chokingly thick with the scents of flowers, musk, and spices. The two older ladies chatted amongst themselves and ignored the sales woman who hovered behind them. Finally, the proprietress caught Dee’s eye, flashed a smile, and skillfully disengaged herself from the women to attend this new, flamboyantly dressed customer who looked like he might actually buy something.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “I certainly hope so.” Dee dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief again. “I’ve been all over the city looking for just the right scent for a dear friend of mine, and simply can’t find the right one! I’m at my wit’s end, not to mention simply dying from the heat!”

  The last part was true; the heavy brocade jacket and frilled shirt were stifling, and his state of nervousness didn’t help. He’d had little opportunity to wear disguises and assume identities, let alone seriously case a target. Now, lives—Mya’s, the captive boy’s, and his own—depended on him getting this right.

  “Would you like a glass of cool water?”

  “Oh, you are a dream, my dear! I’d love something cool!” He smiled at her and fanned his face.

  Following the woman—the shop’s real proprietress or an assassin, he wasn’t sure—to the counter, Dee looked casually around. The broad front windows on either side of the entrance were framed by drapes gracefully tied back to display the wares and entice passersby into the shop. The afternoon sun glittered on the vials of all sizes, shapes, and hues artfully arrayed on the shelves that lined the walls. On the back wall behind the counter was another door, unfortunately closed. What lay beyond that door was what interested Dee.

  The woman filled a crystal goblet from a pewter pitcher, twisted a wedge of lemon into the water, and pressed the cool glass into his hand. “Here you are, sir.”

  “Thank you, my dear!” Holding the glass daintily, he sipped and sighed in unfeigned bliss. “Oh, that’s lovely.”

  “So, what type of scent are you looking for?”

  “Well, that’s part of the problem, I’m afraid. I don’t exactly know.” Dee looked around at the shelves as if bewildered. “My friend is very particular. He’s quite a slave to fashion, but in a, dare I say, sensual sort of way, so nothing too flowery or overpowering, I think.”

  The proprietress pursed her lips in thought, then said, “Perhaps something spicy. Why don’t you come over here with me.”

  Dee sniffed the vials that she proffered, dabbing a few to his wrists at her insistence, while keeping an inconspicuous eye on the front door. When he felt like he might gag if he had to smell one more scent, the door opened. Finally!

  Three young ladies entered. Brazenly dressed in low-cut frocks, giggling and fanning their plump décolletages with frilly hand fans, they looked more than a little out of place in such a high-end establishment. The welcoming expression on the saleswoman’s face as she looked toward the new customers promptly fell. Painting a smile on her lips, she turned her attention back to Dee, but kept one eye on the newcomers.

  “Oh, try this one!” A stark redhead with a smattering of freckles encouraged her friends to sniff as they passed around a vial. Tipping some onto her finger, she dabbed the fragrance behind each ear and between her breasts while the other two grabbed tiny bottles of their own from shelves and popped the corks, sniffing and exclaiming.

  “Ewww, what is this made of? Pig’s wallow?” exclaimed another. Putting the vial back on the shelf, she knocked over several others. Braying a laugh, she fumbled to put them upright.

  The two older ladies looked aghast and started for the door. The redhead made a rude comment as they passed.

  “Now see here, you…” One of the elderly women gripped her parasol like a weapon.

  “These scents here are muskier.” The proprietress looked distraught, as if trying to decide which was more important, attending to the customer at hand or heading off an incipient altercation. A vulgar gesture from one of the blondes decided the situation. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

  “Of course.” As the woman turned away, Dee held up his empty glass. “Might I pour myself another?”

  “Oh, please do. I’m afraid I’m rather…”

  “Best put that up, Granny!” the redhead said, pointing at the parasol. “I’ll stick it somewhere you won’t like and open it.”

  “You!” The older woman took a step back, her face flushed. Her companion hurried out the door, but the parasol wielder refused to back down. “You harlot!”

  “Please, ladies!” The proprietress rushed forward.

  Dee quickly slipped behind the counter, taking full advantage of the distraction. The three “ladies” were Midtown trollops hired to make a scene. They hadn’t been told to start a fight, but it was working beautifully. He reached for the handle of the back door.

  “You can’t make me get out!” complained a blonde loudly. “The emperor’s given us rights, he has!”

  “Fenly!” the proprietress shouted.

  Dee heard a thump from behind the door and jerked back his hand back, turning away just as the latch clicked and a man stepped through. Thinking quickly, Dee started and whirled, dropping his water goblet. It hit the floor and shattered. Stepping back, he pressed his handkerchief to his mouth. “Oh! You scared me!”

  “Sorry, sir.” The man stopped short and eyed him, one eyebrow raised.

  “I’m sorry about the glass, but—” Dee gestured to the pitcher and the broken glass.

  “Fenly!” the proprietress snapped, struggling to keep the warring factions separated.

  Fenly eyes turned and apparently recognized the trouble. “Excuse me.” He shoved the door closed as he hurried forward to aid the proprietress.

  Dee stuck out his foot and stopped the door from closing. Glancing back at the scuffle, he noted the proprietress flailing uselessly to keep the women at bay—Definitely not an assassin—while Fenly snatched two wrists with ease and twisted, immobilizing the women instantly—but he is. The parasol-wielding patron seemed intent on smacking anyone within reach and connected with poor Fenly’s head. He gave her a disgusted look and frogmarched two of the combatants toward the front door. The distraction was working better than Dee could have hoped.

  Dee slipped through the door and pulled it not-quite-shut behind him.

  A corridor extended to the back of the building, ending with a door sporting a number of bolts that undoubtedly opened onto the alley. Three closed doors lined the right-hand wall. To the left, about a third of the way down, was an opening with a chair standing beside it, and beyond that, an open door. The hallway reeked of a thousand competing scents.

  Dee hurried down the hall. The opening turned out to be a landing. The seat of the chair was warm. Fenly was sitting here. The stair descended into a basement, switching back after a half-dozen steps, so Dee couldn’t see anything at the bottom. He crept down a few steps and peered over the balustrade. Leaning against the wall across from the bottom step stood a bored-looking man, arms crossed, a loaded crossbow dangling from one hip.

  Guard! Dee ducked back and continued exploring the upper hall. The first door on the right opened readily into a storage room. The second door was locked, and he didn’t have time to pick it. In the open room to the left, two women and a man worked at benches, grinding ingredients for perfumes if the overwhelming confusion of aromas was any indi
cation. Dee slipped past unseen. The last door yielded as he turned the handle. It was an office.

  The woman seated behind the lone desk blinked in surprise at Dee. “Who are you?”

  “Oh! Well…just a concerned customer!” Dee fluttered his handkerchief in the direction of the front shop, thinking fast. “There’s a frightful disturbance. I thought I should get help.”

  “Disturbance?” The woman, handsome and older in an expensive but plain dress, stood and rounded the desk, hurrying to the door. “What disturbance?”

  “Some rather, shall we say, unsavory women are making quite a scene in the shop.” Dee glanced around the room, a typical office like any shop owner might have, with no visible guards or weapons.

  “What in the name of… Follow me!” The woman hurried down the corridor.

  Dee watched her walk. Maybe an assassin, maybe not.

  With the added reinforcement, the scuffle was quashed in short order. Dee took refuge behind the counter until the last trollop was ejected and the rampant elderly woman with the parasol was comforted and assured that she would receive a discount on any purchases in recompense for her inconvenience. By the time she was ushered out and the three employees turned back to him, Dee stood calmly sipping water from a new goblet.

  “I’m so sorry I dropped the glass,” he apologized, sweeping some of the shards into a little pile with a toe. “Your man scared me when he burst through the door like that.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. At Ursila’s shout, I thought…well, I certainly didn’t mean to startle you so.” Fenly squeezed Dee’s arm gently and gave him a tentative smile. “Are you all right?”

  Oh, bother… The last thing he needed was any unintended entanglements here. Dee patted the man’s hand and returned the smile. “Oh, I’m fine. You’re such a dear.”

  “It’s no matter.” The older woman from the office dismissed the incident with a wave and shot Fenly a hard glance, causing the man to release Dee’s arm and step back. “You were quite right to fetch me. In fact, you probably prevented some breakage. Ursila, please give Mister…”

  “Donnely,” Dee said with a smile. “Terrence Donnely.”