Weapon of Blood

by Chris A. Jackson

  “That’s what?”

  “Why you’re so uptight.” She sighed, as if explaining something to a dull-witted child. “Motherhood changes women more than fatherhood changes men, Lad. Wiggen might not feel the same about…things for a while. Be patient.”

  He looked at her suspiciously. “What things?” Was she saying that Wiggen might not feel the same about him after having the baby? That was ridiculous!

  “You know. Physical things.”

  “You mean sex?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.” She poked him in the stomach with her elbow. “I know men get tense when they don’t get…those things.”

  “You think that’s making me tense?”

  “It might be. I could…help you with that, if you want.”

  “How could you—” He gaped at Mya as her intention came clear to him. A dozen assassins could have leapt out of the shadows at that moment and he wouldn’t have noticed. “You…what?”

  “I am a woman, Lad. And I’m not totally hideous to look at; you said so yourself just the other day.” Her lips curved in a lascivious smile.

  An all-too-familiar physical response thrilled through him before he could banish it. This was Mya. He didn’t—he couldn’t think about her that way!

  “To tell you the truth, being Master Hunter isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I don’t get—”

  “No, Mya.” Lad clenched his jaw and leveled a stare at her. “I love Wiggen. She’s my wife.”

  “All right. I understand.” Mya turned away to take another bite of her sandwich, but not before he caught a flash of something in her eyes. Irritation? Anger? He wasn’t sure. She brushed the hair back from her ear—one of her common tells when she was being evasive—and talked with her mouth full. “But sex and love are two different things, my friend, and if you don’t find something to relax you soon, you’re going to explode. Then where would I be?”

  Lad didn’t reply. He didn’t know how to reply to that from her.

  “Captain! I remembered!” Sergeant Tamir burst into Norwood’s office without knocking. “I remembered that wagon!”

  Norwood’s eyes snapped up from his work at the interruption, but his tirade died on his lips. Tamir’s face shone with excitement, and the man behind him, though he looked more frightened than excited, seemed familiar. He wore soft leathers and a cloak of deerskin, which was odd enough to see in the city, but the captain couldn’t place his face. Norwood had hardly slept since meeting with the duke yesterday, and had spent the morning slogging through Master Woefler’s voluminous report and pouring over the scant list of suspects, none of whom appeared to have the resources, motive, or nature to murder an accomplished wizard. Consequently, it took him a moment to realize what his sergeant was shouting about.

  “Vonlith’s wagon?”

  “Yes, sir. The very same.” He grabbed his companion by the arm and pulled him forward. “You remember my friend Poeter, right? He helped us out when we were investigating those assassinations a few years back. It ended up being that importer fella, Sleeze or something.”

  “Saliez. Yes, what about it?” Norwood felt like a cold hand had just clasped the back of his neck.

  “Well, if you remember, Poeter here reconnoitered Saliez’s mansion for us before we closed the trap, and he reported seeing a big, colorful wagon with gold and silver letters or designs on it.”

  “Yes, I remember.” Norwood recognized the man now, and his heart skipped a beat. “You’re saying that was Vonlith’s wagon at Saliez’s mansion?”

  “That’s right, sir!” Tamir grinned like he’d just won a week’s pay on a bar bet. “I never seen the wagon myself, sir, for, as you know, it was gone by the time we busted in. So I took Poeter down to Vonlith’s stable to see it, and damned if he didn’t tell me ‘Yep, that’s the one I seen.’”

  “You’re sure of it?” Norwood fixed the man with a hard look. “There are lots of tinkers’ wagons rambling the streets.”

  “Sure as a magistrate’s warrant, Captain.” Poeter braced his shoulders back and met Norwood’s glare with surprising fortitude. “I remembered how a couple of them funny letters looked like snakes twisted up in a curlicue, and how the colors behind ’em seemed like a rainbow but in a spiral. There’s no mistakin’ it, sir. That’s the same wagon.”

  Norwood leaned back in his chair with the memory of that horrific night: the fight in the courtyard, the torture chamber they’d found beneath the keep, the bloody corpse of Saliez with his throat crushed, his torso covered in arcane tattoos…runes! His mind snapped onto the thought like a mousetrap, and he shot up out of his chair.

  “Vonlith was a runemage, and Saliez had runes tattooed all over his body!” He shook his head, cursing himself for not making the connection earlier. “Son of a…”

  “Exactly, sir.” Tamir grinned and stuck his thumbs into his belt. “So, if Vonlith was associatin’ with scumbags like this Saliez, there’s no wonder he ended up dead.”

  “And remember what that innkeeper’s daughter said about Saliez? Master of the Assassins Guild.” There was no physical evidence to support the relationship, but the presence of Vonlith’s wagon at Saliez’s suggested a link between the wizard and the Assassins Guild. With that in mind, Norwood could come up with all sorts of theories as to how the runemage might have earned a dagger in the brain. So much for telling the duke that the cases were unrelated.

  “She did say that, didn’t she, sir?”

  “She did.” Norwood rubbed his jaw. “And Vonlith was killed by a professional; neat and tidy.”

  “That he was, sir.”

  “Pull the records of that investigation, Tam. Everything! I want to know what the color of the godsdamned carpets were in Saliez’s mansion. If we can link something we found there to this case, we might get some idea of who our assassin is.”

  “Right away, sir!” Tamir gave him another self-satisfied grin.

  He’s probably just happy that he was the one to get a lead, not Woefler, the captain thought, and that gave him an idea of where he might find another link between Vonlith’s murder and that old case.

  “I think it’s time I paid a visit to the Wizards Guild lodge, Sergeant.” Norwood rifled through the stacks of papers on his desk until he found the writ from the duke. It had a blackbrew stain on it, but was still legible. “We need to find out exactly who our dead wizard was doing business with.”

  The ledger must have weighed two stone. It hit the table with enough force that Norwood felt it through the stone floor of the Wizards Guild common room. He also felt the hair on the back on his neck prickle with the caustic stares of the mages sitting in leather-upholstered chairs all around him. They obviously did not appreciate his presence in their private domain. Only after examining the duke’s writ with some disdain had the guild secretary finally allowed the captain access and brought out the guild log.

  “Thank you.” He gave the surly fellow a cordial smile.

  “Damage a single page, smudge a single character, Captain, and you will be woefully sorry.”

  “I understand. I appreciate your help,” Norwood said as politely as he could manage, remembering the duke’s warning about alienating the guild.

  With another glare, the guild secretary took two steps back, crossed his arms and set his feet, obviously intending to watch over Norwood’s shoulder for as long as it took him to complete his task. The table upon which the logbook now sat had no accompanying chair, and one glance at the secretary’s face told him that one would not be provided.

  Marvelous. Suppressing a glare of his own, he opened the leather-bound tome with careful deliberation, stooped down, and began to read.

  It took him a while to figure out how the massive logbook was organized. He’d be damned before he asked for help from the snooty secretary, and the man offered no assistance. His acerbic attitude seemed strange behavior to Norwood; one of their own had been killed, and the captain was here trying to solve the crime. Shouldn’t they be more hel
pful?

  The logbook turned out to be a linear chronology of every guild member’s standing, activities and contracts, and as such, contained page after page of information Norwood didn’t care about. He had had no idea there were so many wizards in Twailin, or that they were so busy. Flipping backward from the current date, Norwood found Vonlith’s death noted in a precise, dispassionate reference.

  Eighth day of Torith, year T-II-47: Master Vonlith, deceased. Wrongful death. Dues paid to end of the current month, balance to be forwarded to next of kin.

  Next of kin.

  That had been a disappointing avenue of investigation. Vonlith had left everything to his only living relative, a nephew who owned an unassuming bar in the Sprawls District. Tamir had interviewed the fellow, and reported that he didn’t think the barkeep had either the financial or cognitive wherewithal to arrange—or commit—such a murder. Also, a dozen patrons were ready to swear that the man had been serving them drinks from late afternoon into the small hours of the morning on the night of Vonlith’s death. The nephew would soon find himself embarrassingly rich. According to Woefler, the sale of Vonlith’s personal effects alone would yield a fortune, and his fellow guild members were already gathering like crows to carrion.

  The captain consulted his own notebook, then flipped backward through the ledger to the date five years ago when they had raided Saliez’s estate. Nothing was noted for Vonlith on that date, but three days prior, the wizard had signed a contract to “scribe various runes.” Half of the fee had been paid up front—a substantial amount—with the rest to be paid upon completion of the task. Two days after the date of the raid, however, another notation filled a line in the ledger. “Contract terminated prior to completion. Deposit retained.”

  Well, it’s circumstantial, but it certainly suggests that Vonlith worked for Saliez. So it’s no stretch to imagine that he knew the assassin who killed him. Norwood jotted the dates and notations into his notebook, cursing the Wizards Guild policy of confidentiality for patrons. There was no way to match names to these contacts.

  He began flipping forward, one page at a time, searching the elegant script for Vonlith’s name. Two weeks after the termination of the presumed contract with Saliez, he found another entry. “Contract to scribe various runes. Payments to be received monthly until completion.”

  Each month after that he found a notation that Vonlith had paid his guild dues in full, and that he had received payment for his ongoing contract. Norwood gaped at the amounts. No wonder Vonlith lived in the lap of luxury.

  The captain continued flipping through the log’s pages. Every month he found the exact same entry for Vonlith: dues paid, payment received. One year, two… Two years of inscribing runes? Was he enchanting an entire estate or something?

  Finally swallowing his pride, Norwood crooked a finger to beckon the secretary over. “I find myself wasting your valuable time, sir. Perhaps you could help?”

  The secretary glared at him, looking as if considering whether he should answer or not. He made a face, something between distaste and impatience. “If it will get you out of here quicker, I suppose I could help.”

  Pretentious twit! Norwood gritted his teeth and smiled pleasantly.

  “Thank you. I’d like to know if there is a way to quickly determine if and when this contract was completed.” He placed a fingertip on the recent notation. “It began almost two years prior to this date.”

  The secretary scowled at him, then stepped forward and placed his finger on the notation. He muttered under his breath, and his fingertip glowed briefly. Norwood stepped back, but the magic was apparently already done.

  “Tenth day of Mirah, year T-II-47. About a month ago.” The secretary waved a hand and the pages of the log flipped forward.

  “One contract lasted almost five years?” Ignoring the secretary’s condescending sneer, Norwood read the notation: “Contract completed, final payment received.” The total sum of the money earned by the contract, noted in red, was staggering.

  Five years earning a fortune, and a month after it’s completed, he ends up dead… And the previous contract, presumably for Saliez, was cancelled because Saliez was killed. The connection between the two murders was still only circumstantial, but firming up.

  He stepped back from the book and nodded to the secretary. “Thank you. That’s all I need.”

  “Hmph.” The man waved a hand and the heavy tome flipped closed with a thump.

  Norwood didn’t give the secretary the satisfaction of a response to his rudeness, but turned on his heel and strode from the guild lodge. The trail, it seemed, had led him back to events that he would rather not recall, events that had claimed the lives of more than a dozen of his guardsmen, not to mention as many nobles. He was beginning to have a very bad feeling about Vonlith’s murder. But now, where else could he find information on a possible connection between Vonlith, Saliez, and the Assassins Guild? He only knew of one place.

  “Where to, sir?”

  The question from his driver jolted Norwood out of his musing. He was standing at the door of his carriage, the rain hammering unnoticed on the top of his head. Climbing aboard, he shook the rain from his cloak and wiped his wet face before pulling out his notebook once again. He flipped through the pages, found what he was looking for, and called up to the driver, “Westmarket. The Tap and Kettle on Beltway Street.”

  Chapter IX

  The door to Norwood’s carriage jerked open the instant the vehicle lurched to a stop. A bright-faced young man grinned up through the pouring rain and bowed.

  “Welcome to the Tap and Kettle, milord.” Stepping aside, he flourished an arm toward the inn. Golden light glowed from the windows, piercing some of the day’s gloom. “My name’s Ponce, sir. I apologize that I don’t have a proper umbrella to keep the rain off. This weather’s only fit for frogs and fishes, but we’ve got a warm hearth and hearty ale waitin’ inside. Not every day we get a visit from the Royal Guard!”

  “Thank you.” Norwood stepped out of the carriage and dashed up the broad steps to the shelter of the covered porch.

  Ponce matched his steps and hurried ahead open the door. “Anything for your driver while you’re inside, milord? We’ve got a pot of blackbrew hot in the stable, and we can towel off your team so they don’t take a chill.”

  “That would be fine. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, milord.” Ponce grinned, bowed and dashed off through the rain to guide the coach into the barn.

  Norwood turned to enter the inn and stopped short, startled to find himself staring at the very same young man. At least, he looked the same, except that this one was dry and the other wet from the rain.

  “Take your cloak, milord?” The new young man relieved him of his soaked weather cloak and hung it by the door. “My name’s Tika. Welcome to the Tap and Kettle. I can see by the confusion on your face that you’ve already met my brother Ponce. We’re easy enough to tell apart, really. I’m the handsome one, and he’s the lout.” He gestured to the bustling common room. “Will you be takin’ a meal with us today, or just a pint and a seat by the fire?”

  Norwood found himself taken aback for a moment by the welcome. Few inns in this part of town boasted both a groom and doorman, let alone manned by identical twins, and such mannerly ones at that. But the effect was not off-putting, and the captain found himself smiling. “Blackbrew will be fine. I’d like a see Mister Forbish when he has a moment. Tell him Captain Norwood of the Royal Guard wishes a word with him.”

  “Of course, milord. This way, please.” Tika guided him through the busy common room to a cushioned chair by the fire. His uniform drew a few glances from other patrons, but that was to be expected south of the river. “Warm yourself here while I get your blackbrew and ask about the master of the house.”

  Norwood had no sooner sat down and propped his soaked boots on the hearth than Tika was back with a tray. A pot of blackbrew, a thick steaming mug, a pitcher of cream, a plate of cookies, and a silver
honeypot vied for space on the tray. The young man handled the load expertly as he placed it on the small table beside the chair.

  “Master Forbish’ll be right with you, milord. He’s up to his elbows in bread dough at the moment.”

  “That’s fine.”

  The boy hurried off, and Norwood took a few moments to relax. Stretching his feet closer to the fire, he sipped the blackbrew and nibbled a few of the delicious almond cookies while he surveyed the inn’s common room. Business, it seemed, was good. Customers sat at more than half of the tables. Most were merchants, some obviously locals taking time from their businesses to enjoy a hearty meal, others passing through the city, as evidenced by their foreign garb and travel-worn clothes. One couple looked to be wealthy travelers, dressed in finery and eating and drinking in congenial company at a corner table, a pretty young wife attending to her older husband’s every word and gesture. Two maids bustled about with tankards and trays of food, while Tika tended the door, occasionally stepping out onto the porch to shout for a coach to be brought around. The place seemed a well-run, clean hive of activity. Norwood vaguely recalled the inn as being much quieter when he visited five years ago. He was on his second cup of blackbrew and fourth cookie when Forbish bustled out from the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel and dusting the flour off of his apron.

  “Captain Norwood!” Forbish gave him a quick bow, his smile a bit nervous, though not, Norwood conceded, more nervous than any innkeeper might be with an unexpected visit from the captain of the Royal Guard. The innkeeper wedged his considerable bulk into the other chair near the hearth. “Been quite a while since you’ve visited. Is this a social call or a matter of business?”

  “Business, I’m afraid, but nothing to do directly with you.” The captain swallowed the last of his blackbrew and put the cup aside. Looking around, he raised an appraising eyebrow. “It seems as if your own business is thriving.”