Weapon of Blood

by Chris A. Jackson

  “Lissa!” Wiggen surged toward the mirror, but Lad kept a grip on her hand and pulled her back.

  “How do we know this is real?” He struggled to keep his eyes on the assassins instead of the squirming image of his daughter in the mirror. “It could be an illusion, a magical lie.”

  “Feel free to speak to her,” Patrice offered, waving toward the mirror. “Doubtless she knows her own parents. She can see and hear us as well as we see and hear her.”

  This time, Lad allowed Wiggen to pull him to the mirror.

  “Lissa? Lissa, baby. Momma’s here.” Wiggen choked with emotion.

  The woman in the mirror held the babe up, and Lissa’s little face came instantly alight with joy. She reached out her pudgy hands and emitted a squeal of delight.

  “Oh, Lissa…” Wiggen reached her free hand toward the image of their daughter. Her fingertips brushed the glass, and the image immediately faded to a mundane reflection. Wiggen gasped and turned to glare at Patrice. “Bring her back!”

  “We’ve given you a glimpse of your daughter as a token of our good faith. Now we will discuss the terms of our agreement, what you will do for us in exchange for the safe return of your child.”

  “Agreement?” Lad gave her a withering glare. “You say you’ll return my daughter, but how can I trust you to keep your word?”

  “What choice do you have?” the inquisitor countered, taking her seat. “The only thing you need to trust is that we will kill your child if you don’t do as we ask. You need not trust us, only obey us.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Then your child is dead.”

  “And you with her.”

  “And Lissa will be no less dead,” Patrice said, using Lad’s own logic against him.

  Lad gritted his teeth. This was going all wrong! He had hoped to walk out of here with his daughter in his arms and the knowledge that the masters could never, ever hurt them again. That, however, was not to be.

  “Lad!” Wiggen’s free hand grasped the sleeve of his shirt. “It’s Lissa! You have to do as they say!”

  He looked into his wife’s eyes and saw the same pain that he felt. They had planned to agree to the masters’ demands as a ruse until they could determine what to do, but plans were one thing, reality another.

  “What do you want?”

  “We want you to kill Mya.”

  “Why not do it yourself?”

  “Don’t be coy. You know we can’t attack someone wearing the guildmaster’s ring. But you can, because you never signed a blood contract.”

  They think Mya wears the ring! Lad failed to mask his surprise.

  Patrice smiled triumphantly. “Yes, we know the ring was not destroyed, just as we know you are not wholly bound by her orders. So kill her, and we will give you Lissa.”

  “I can’t.” Lad put everything he had into the lie, hoping they would believe him. His expertise was in physical conflict. Mya was the expert in deceit.

  “Why not?” demanded Horice. Patrice shot him a glare at his outburst.

  “The magic in me prevents it. The Grandfather ordered me to never harm her.” The last part was true, even if the first wasn’t. Lad hoped that no spy had witnessed his fight with Mya in the courtyard of the Tap and Kettle. “Mya’s hold over me is not as strong as the Grandfather’s was, but his original commands still bind me; I can’t harm her.”

  To his astonishment, Horice turned to his bodyguard and asked, “Is that true, Sereth?”

  “Mya was assigned to tend the weapon, sir. The Grandfather had to have granted her protection.” The bodyguard’s eyes shifted to Lad for an instant, then back. “He killed Master Targus. He would have killed Mya if he wasn’t commanded not to.”

  “Then we have a problem.” Patrice exchanged glances with her three colleagues, then turned back to Lad. “And your child’s life hangs in the balance. What a pity.”

  “I think we can get around this,” Neera said, her voice a harsh rasp. “You say you can’t harm Mya, as commanded by the Grandfather, but…” her eyes glinted deep in their sockets, “did he ever command you not to betray her?”

  Lad blinked. They were handing him a way out, though they didn’t seem to realize it. In fact, from their surreptitious glances and tiny nods, this seemed to be an agreed-upon alternative. He answered immediately and truthfully. “No, he didn’t.”

  Neera reached inside her cloak and pulled forth a tiny crystal tube. She placed it on the table and pushed it toward him with a vile yellow fingernail.

  “Put the entire contents in her wine or blackbrew. It will induce unconsciousness, but will not harm or kill her. Bring her to us in bondage, and we will exchange your daughter for her.”

  Lad cocked his head as he picked up the vial, wary of some sly deception. “If you’re lying, and this is actually poison, I won’t be able to give it to her. The magic in me will prevent it.” Dead, Mya would be of no use in bargaining for Lissa. They would have what they wanted from him with no incentive to return her. In fact, by keeping her, they would continue to control him.

  “I’m telling you the truth,” Neera said with a wizened smile.

  Lad slipped the vial into a pocket; he had little choice. “Where and when?”

  “Tomorrow night,” Patrice said with a smile of satisfaction. “You know the courtyard behind the tenements east of Fiveway Fountain in West Crescent?”

  “Yes.”

  “Midnight.”

  “All right.” He squeezed Wiggen’s hand, and they walked back out into the rain.

  Chapter XXII

  A silver coin clattered onto the desk top. “For the night.”

  The innkeeper looked up from his ledger at Sereth, and then at the giggling doxy on his arm. “Two for the whole night. We’re a respectable establishment.”

  “Fine.” Sereth knew he was being fleeced, but also knew that this was one of the few inns free from Assassins Guild eyes, and the coins would keep the man’s mouth shut. He flipped another silver crown onto the table. “The sheets better be clean.”

  “Third floor, last door on the left.” The innkeeper took the money and handed over a key. “And keep the noise down.”

  “Right.” Sereth snatched up the key and pulled his companion toward the stairs. “Come on!”

  She giggled and stumbled drunkenly. “Whoa, there! What’s your rush, love? We’ve got all night!”

  “I want to get my money’s worth.”

  “All right, all right. Just keep your codpiece fixed.”

  She stumbled a few more times on their way to the third floor, and teetered unsteadily as he worked the key in the lock. When he closed the door behind them, however, locking it and throwing the bolt for good measure, her pretenses fell away.

  “Did you find out where they’re keeping the baby?” Kiesha went to the night table and took up a towel to dry her dripping hair. They’d both been drenched by the rain, but Sereth at least had a cloak. She was wet to the skin. It was her own fault. Kiesha had insisted on meeting away from Hensen’s house. Though she said it was for his own safety, he was pretty sure that his last late-night visit had scared the master thief. He’d let his temper get the better of him, and he was paying for it; banning him from the house also kept him from seeing his wife.

  “No. The masters are keeping it under wraps. They’re afraid that Lad might take one of us to question. They’ve assigned a team of journeymen to watch over her, but only that team and the masters know where. The only one of the team I know for sure is an Enforcer named Kellik.” The inn’s tiny room was stifling and malodorous. Sereth went to the window, opened the shutter, and lifted the frame for a little fresh air. “The masters are staying together at Youtrin’s warehouse, surrounded by an army of bodyguards. They’re running scared.”

  “They should be scared of him.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Sereth murmured. He remembered the string of impossible murders the Grandfather had orchestrated. The whole city knew of them, though Sereth was one
of the few who knew who had committed them. The weapon…Lad. And the masters had taken his child. Sereth knew too well that feeling of helplessness, and the rage that accompanied it. He turned toward Kiesha. “When he and his wife walked into that—”

  “He brought his wife to meet with the masters of the Assassins Guild?” The thief stared at him in disbelief.

  “Yes. And that didn’t stop him from threatening to kill them all if they didn’t let him see his daughter.” Sereth remembered thinking that Horice would shit his pants when that happened.

  “Does he honestly believe that if he kills Mya, they’ll hand his daughter back?”

  Kiesha had finished drying her hair, and was now dabbing the water from her neck and décolletage. Her disguise as a low-priced prostitute was remarkably accurate, right down to ragged stockings and cheap shoes. A far cry from the glamorous gowns he’d seen her wearing at Hensen’s. The sodden dress clung like a second skin to the curves of her body, the curves he’d seen revealed only a few days before. He opened the window a little more as the air in the room suddenly seemed even closer.

  “I have no idea what he believes, but I don’t think he’s that stupid.” He watched as Kiesha pulled back the coverlet and held the lamp low to inspect the sheets. Surprisingly, they looked clean. “And he’s not going to kill Mya for them.”

  She put down the lamp and gave him a curious look. “He’s not?”

  “He says he can’t, that the magic constrains his actions. The Grandfather ordered him not to hurt Mya, and the command still restrains him.”

  “Interesting.” She sat on the bed and began unlacing her shoes. “So, if he can’t kill Mya, what did they order him to do?”

  “Drug her and bring her to them. She’s wearing the guildmaster’s ring, so they’re going to use someone outside the guild to do the deed. Someone stupid enough to believe he’ll get more than ten inches of steel in his back when it’s done.”

  “That must be a short list of potentials.” She finished with her second shoe and kicked them off into the corner. “When and where?”

  Sereth swallowed hard. This was the moment he’d been both waiting for and dreading. Firming his resolve, he said, “I’ll tell you after you release my wife.”

  “What?” An incredulous smirk spread across her face, as if she thought he was joking.

  He wasn’t.

  “You heard me. I want her back. Now.”

  “That’s not in our best interest, Sereth.”

  “I don’t care about your best interest, Kiesha. I want my wife back.”

  “And you think one little bit of information is worth us losing you as a spy?” She laughed and pulled off her tattered stockings, draping them over the nightstand. “You’re delusional.”

  His hand went to the dagger in his sleeve—one flick of the wrist, and he could bury it in her eye—but he knew she considered him no serious threat. If she died, so would his wife. She’d called his bluff, but he’d be damned if he’d play her games.

  “Fine, then. Find them yourself.” Sereth strode toward the door, but before he could reach the latch, she was past him, quick as a cat.

  Kiesha leaned her back against the door and smiled. “Oh, come on, Sereth. You can’t give up so easily.” Without taking her eyes from his, she began unlacing the strings of her bodice. “Hensen won’t let your wife go, but surely there’s something else you want that I can give you.”

  His mind spun. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m negotiating, Sereth.” She slipped her arms out of the sleeves of the dress, then pushed the sodden clothing down to her hips. “Besides, it’s pouring outside, and neither of our masters expect us back before morning.”

  “Not interested.” Sereth turned away, hating the tremor in his voice. “I’m married, remember?”

  “That’s all right, Sereth. I know you’re married. In fact, I talk to your wife regularly.” He heard the wet fabric of her dress hit the floor and swallowed hard. “She’s lonely, you know.”

  “She’d be a lot less lonely if you talked Hensen into letting her go.” He glanced over his shoulder to see her hanging the dress on the coatrack beside the door. Her pale, moist skin glowed in the lamp light, the muscles beneath long and lithe. Sereth looked away. His wife wasn’t the only one who was lonely. Three years…

  “He won’t do that, Sereth, and you know perfectly well why.” He felt her approach, but refused to turn around. “You’re much too valuable to him.” Her hands reached over his shoulders to unclasp his cloak. “You’ve performed very well, and he’s not about to let you go.”

  “So, is that what you’re doing? Rewarding me for good behavior?”

  “Is there something wrong with showing a little gratitude?” Her hands came around again and began to work on the buttons of his shirt.

  “Yes, there’s something wrong with it.” Sereth grasped her wrists, but she pressed herself against his back, her damp skin cool through the cloth of his shirt. He felt her shiver. It’s been so long… “Does your master pay all of his informants with your favors?”

  Kiesha stiffened against his back for a moment before easing in again, but when she spoke, her voice sounded strained. “No, Sereth. This was my idea.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to.”

  “But I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “No, I don’t. My wife—”

  “Your wife is safe and healthy.” She pressed closer now, her breath warm in his ear. “And she will never, ever know.”

  Sereth’s knees weakened and he closed his eyes. “She may never know, but I will.”

  “Yes, you will.” She kissed the back of his neck. “Take a little pleasure in your work, Sereth. If you don’t, it’ll kill you.”

  No!

  Sereth released Kiesha’s wrists and turned to face her, glaring into her sultry gaze. If she and Hensen thought they could manipulate him this way, they were dead wrong. He loved his wife, and he wouldn’t betray her for a quick tumble.

  “Tomorrow night at midnight. A tenement courtyard in West Crescent, east of Fiveway Fountain.” Gripping her shoulders hard, Sereth shoved Kiesha onto the bed. By the time she recovered, he’d flung open the window, slipped out into the rain, and descended to the street. He was a block away before he realized that he’d forgotten his cloak.

  The Golden Cockerel buzzed like a hornet’s nest struck with a well-aimed stone. The pretense of a simple drinking and gambling house had been cast aside; no pub was this busy so early in the morning. Stern-looking men and women came and went, their hands on prominently displayed weapons, and their eyes scrutinizing every passing cart, carriage, and pedestrian.

  Lad mounted the steps with barely a glance at the two dour sentries stationed at the door. They knew him and, although their glares were hard, they let him pass without a word. He wondered for a moment why they didn’t try to stop him, until he realized that Mya hadn’t told anyone about their fight. No one knows about her magic. She’s kept it secret. Well, in a few minutes, her secrets wouldn’t matter.

  The door swung open easily at his touch, and the woman stationed inside took her hand away from the dagger beneath her apron. Lad ignored her and crossed the busy common room. Though he kept his gaze straight ahead, he felt the eyes of the Hunters following him, and heard their whispers. Some blamed him for the war with other guild factions, resenting the vulnerability—his family—that the other masters had exploited. Most of them, however, despite Mya’s claim that assassins didn’t have families, had someone they held dear somewhere. And if this could happen to Lad, it could happen to them.

  Either way, Lad didn’t care.

  Mika had acquired a companion of equal height, girth and demeanor, and they both stood guard at the door to Mya’s office. Mika knocked and opened the door with an expressionless nod. Inside, Mya and a half-dozen senior journeymen looked up from the paper-strewn table.

  “Lad!” Mya stared at him unbelievingly. “You’re he
re.”

  He bit back an acerbic reply and said, “Yes. I’m here, Mya.”

  “Good.” She flashed a little smile and motioned him forward. “We’ve made some progress overnight.” She drew a large map of Twailin from beneath the pile of papers and laid it on top. “Have a look at this.”

  “I need to speak with you, Mya.”

  “About what?”

  “I’ve learned something you need to know.”

  “What happened? Did they contact you?”

  “I need to speak with you alone.”

  The Hunters bristled, offended at the implication that there were secrets between Lad and Mya too sensitive for their ears. He ignored them, focusing his attention on Mya. The suspicion that flashed across her eyes quickly faded to curiosity. His years of practiced naïveté had convinced her that he was incapable of a convincing deception. Now, with the vial of Neera’s drug in the palm of his hand, he plotted against her and she couldn’t see it.

  “Take a break. Gods know we could all use a moment’s distraction. I’m starting to see this damn map when my eyes are closed.” Mya reached for her blackbrew cup and drained it in one long swallow. The Hunters stared at her dubiously, but she waved them off. “Go on, get out of here. Grab a meal, get some sleep, relax for an hour or so. We’re not going anywhere yet, not until we have a plan.”

  The Hunters filed out, some muttering, others relieved at the prospect of a break. Mya reached for the blackbrew pot and refilled her cup. When the door closed, the pot clattered back onto the tray, and she looked at him with clear relief.

  “I’m glad you came.”

  When performing a sleight of hand, a distraction is always wise. Remember!

  In this case, the truth seemed the best distraction. “I went to them.”

  His admission widened her eyes and stopped her hand halfway to her cup. “You did? When?”

  “Last night.” He rounded the table. “You were right. We needed to know what they wanted from me. Wiggen and I took—”

  “Wiggen? You took your wife to a meeting with them?”

  “She insisted on going. We took the wagon to Youtrin’s warehouse.”