Weapon of Vengeance (Weapon of Flesh Trilogy)

by Jackson, Chris A.

  Lad slapped open the door to the butcher shop so hard that it cracked against the wall. He propelled his charge through the door, reigning in his boiling blood to keep from hurting the man. The fellow had been through enough already.

  “Hey!” The proprietor looked up with a glare, then swallowed his reproof and lowered his gaze back to his work. He knew better than to interfere with people who came into his shop bearing the marks of recent violence.

  Lad ignored the butcher’s mutters and propelled his battered charge around the long counter and down a hall. A man with a cleaver at his hip stood before the door at the hall’s end, huge arms crossed over a barrel chest, biceps straining the fabric of his shirt. A typical Enforcer. The thug grinned as they approached, eying Lad as if deciding how many pieces to tear him into.

  The misconception was common. With a lithe, wiry build, nondescript clothing, and no weapons, Lad knew that many underestimated him. Generally he took pains to avoid conflict, but right now he wasn’t in the mood for explanations. He nodded toward the door. “Open it.”

  “I don’t know who you are, bucko, but you don’t just come into this shop and—”

  Lad thrust his fist out faster than the Enforcer could even reach for his cleaver. With exquisite precision, he stopped the blow an inch from the man’s nose. The ring on Lad’s finger—obsidian woven with gold—widened the thug’s eyes and closed his mouth. Lad bridled his urge for violence. The man was just doing his job. It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t yet recognize the new master of the Twailin Assassins Guild.

  “Now you know who I am.” Lad lowered his hand and nodded again at the door. “Open it.”

  “Yes, Master.” The thug opened the door and stepped aside.

  The room wasn’t what one would expect in the back of a butcher shop. One side was furnished for pleasure, a well-appointed sitting area with a luxurious rug, a plush divan and low table adjacent to a mahogany bar crowded with decanters, bottles, and an array of cut-crystal glasses. The other side of the room was all business, with a broad desk of dark oak littered with papers faced by two leather-upholstered chairs.

  Behind the desk sat a man who obviously believed in mixing business and pleasure. Dressed in a sharp, brushed-wool jacket and waistcoat with gold buttons, he appeared the epitome of a successful businessman. The provocatively dressed girl on his lap spoiled that image. The perturbation on his face at the unexpected visitors transformed to shock, and he surged to his feet, spilling the girl to the floor and her drink into his lap.

  “Master!” Tiny silver rods chimed at his wrist as Jingles brushed the liquid from his trousers and hauled the girl to her feet. “Sorry about that. Just havin’ a little bit of fun, you know.” He patted the girl on the rump as he nudged her toward the room’s other door. “Off with you now, Celia. We’ll talk later. Ah…keep up the good work.”

  Lad watched the girl go. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old, but the seductive smile she tossed his way suggested that she was already well-versed in her profession. Undoubtedly a portion of her earnings found their way into Assassin Guild coffers, though it looked as if Jingles might be taking his share in trade. What his Master Enforcer did for fun didn’t concern Lad. He had a more important matter on his mind.

  “Do you know this man?” Lad released his charge’s collar. The man stumbled, looking as if he wished he were anywhere but here. He squinted out of his one good eye—the other was purple and swollen shut—and dabbed at his bloody split lip with a sodden handkerchief. One whole side of his face was a massive contusion.

  “Can’t say as I do offhand, but…” Jingles rounded the desk, still brushing at his damp crotch as he examined the fellow’s face. “Look the other way so I can see you without that bruise.”

  The man complied.

  “Come to think of it, yes, I think I do know him. Runs a bookstore off Briar Rose Avenue.”

  “A st-stationers,” the man corrected. “Th-the Binder’s Bin Stationers.”

  “Right! Quebeck’s his name!” Jingles grinned as if he’d just solved a puzzle, but sobered when he saw Lad’s grim expression. “What happened to him?”

  “He was beaten and threatened, and his shop was tossed.” Lad’s anger rose again. “I ordered an end to this violence! Tell me, Jingles, did you order this?”

  “I did not, Master.” Jingles looked suddenly frightened. “I’ve followed your orders to the letter, I swear on my life!”

  “An appropriate oath. Your life is exactly what it’ll cost you if I find out you’re lying.” Lad turned to the trembling shopkeeper. “Did you know the ones who beat you?”

  “I n-never saw them before today, sir. They weren’t the ones who usually came by…before.” He swallowed and wrung the handkerchief in his hands. A drop of blood fell to the expensive rug. “Please, sirs, they told me to be quiet about it. I don’t want any trouble. They…they said they’d burn…”

  “Nobody’s going to hurt you, Master Quebeck, but we need answers to make sure that whoever did this won’t come back.” Lad clenched his jaw. The poor man was terrified. Lad had come upon him sweeping up glass from the shop’s broken front window, in tears as he plucked pieces of fine parchment from the muddy gutter. He hadn’t wanted to accompany Lad, but the guildmaster had insisted. This was Jingles’ territory, so the Master Enforcer would have to answer for it. Lad hoped the violence was the Thieves Guild moving in on their territory, though he dreaded that it wasn’t. Jingles’ denial seemed sincere, but Lad was determined to get to the bottom of the matter. “This is Master Jarred. He’s going to ask you some questions.”

  “I’ll answer as best I can, sir.” The shopkeeper’s voice still trembled, despite Lad’s assurances.

  Jingles eyed Quebeck critically. “Can you describe who beat you? How many, what they wore. Did they use names?”

  “No names, sir. “Th-there were two of them. A man and a woman, though she was as tall and big as he.” Quebeck glanced at Lad, then back to Jingles. “She had red hair tied back in a long braid, and a scar on the bridge of her nose. The man was a Morrgrey. Dark, of course, and wore a green felt hat with a cock’s feather.”

  Lad saw the answer in Jingle’s face even before he asked, “Do you know these two?”

  “I do, Master.” The Master Enforcer’s hand twitched and the silver bars jingled. “The man’s named Korlak, and the woman’s Gerti Yance. They’re ours.”

  “Ours...” Lad’s knuckles popped as he clenched his fists. Forcing himself to take a deep, calming breath, he turned back to Quebeck. “How much damage was done to your shop?”

  “Um, maybe twenty crowns worth, including lost inventory, and it’ll be a couple of days ’til I can open back up.”

  “And how much cash did they take from you?”

  “Just what was in the cash box. Maybe fifteen crowns.”

  Lad told Jingles, “Give him fifty crowns.”

  The Master Enforcer didn’t even quibble. He went right to his desk, opened a drawer, and counted out the sum. Dropping it into a leather pouch, he handed it over to the man with the assurance, “I’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

  Lad even believed him.

  “You can go now, Master Quebeck.” Lad nudged him toward the door. “Thank you.” When the door had closed, he fixed Jingles with an even stare and said, “Who are Korlak and Yance?”

  “Enforcers, sir, assigned to Molsen’s area, near Eastgate.”

  “Take me to them.”

  “Now, Master?”

  “Now.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jingles went to his desk, pulled two daggers from a drawer, and put them in boot sheaths. He snatched up a walking stick and drew forth the gleaming sword that was attached to the polished gold handle. Snapping it back into place, he turned to Lad and nodded. “Ready, Master.”

  “Good.” Lad noted Jingles’ fine clothes, and considered his own simple shirt and pants. His shoes bore no shine, and he wore no weapons. Anyone looking at the two of them w
ould think Jingles a moneyed gentleman and Lad his servant. That suited Lad just fine. “Where are we going?”

  “Molsen’s got them watching over a gambling house called Lucky Bones.”

  “I know it.” There weren’t many places in Twailin that Lad didn’t know.

  “Business usually starts to pick up this time of day, so they should both be there.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  Jingles seemed to consider his next words before speaking. “If you tell me what you want done, Master, I’ll see to it. There’s no reason you need to—”

  “There is a reason I need to see to this, Jingles. I want to know why it happened, and make sure it doesn’t happen again!”

  “As you say, Master. I’ll tan Molsen’s hide if I find out he knew anything about this, but these two might just be poachers, not acting on orders. It’s your call, of course.”

  “Yes, it is my call.”

  Lad followed Jingles out the back door and around to the street, stopping abruptly as the Master Enforcer hailed a passing hackney. He generally walked wherever he went, but one look at Jingles’ shiny, hard-soled boots told him that there was no way the man could walk to Eastgate. Lad didn’t like coaches, but after a week as guildmaster, he had discovered a lot of things he didn’t like that he was having to get used to. Going to bed every night without Wiggen at his side was the hardest.

  As the coach pulled up, a woman in a simple dress hurried past and, for an instant, he saw Wiggen: her walk, her hair, her scent… He blinked, and the vision was gone.

  Gone… She’s gone… Lad followed Jingles into the coach and took a seat.

  Clenching his hands at his sides, he forced down the urge to lash out, to vent the rage and frustration that continually threatened to overwhelm him. One by one, he flexed and relaxed each muscle in his body, an exercise he had been taught long ago to imbue calm. It didn’t work, just as his morning exercises and meditation no longer brought the peace of mind they once had. Nothing helped. Everywhere he looked he saw her. Every scent and sight reminded him of the life they’d shared at the Tap and Kettle. He looked out the window at the passing city, searching for something, anything to keep his mind active, busy, away from dwelling on his empty bed, the smell of Wiggen’s hair as he lay down beside her, one arm over her, the warmth of her body against him…

  Wiggen…

  “Here we are!”

  Jingles’ announcement snapped Lad from his reverie, and the guildmaster’s blood chilled. He recognized Eastgate Street outside, but remembered nothing of the trip. How long? He considered the distance; fifteen or twenty minutes, at least.

  Not again! Lad kept his face composed despite his mounting apprehension. He’d been trained from birth to be attentive to his surroundings at every waking moment, and it had saved his life many times. Since Wiggen’s death, lapses like this, transient periods lost in thought, were becoming frequent.

  Jingles opened the coach door and stepped out. Lad forced himself to focus on the here and now as he followed. They stood in front of the Lucky Bones public house. A broad sign—a pair of dice coming up double eights—pointed the way down the stairs to the drinking and gambling establishment tucked into the basement of a shoe factory.

  “The manager’s name’s Lyghter. She’s a hard case, but runs a good business. She’s been one of our…clients for a long time now.” Jingles flipped a half-crown to the coachman, and turned to Lad, jingling his bracelet nervously. “Master, if Korlak and Yance are poachers, they might try to bolt. A visit from me wouldn’t startle them, but if I’m with someone, it might. Maybe I should go first?”

  Lad nodded. “I don’t want to disrupt business. Go ahead.”

  Jingles looked relieved. Descending the stairs, he pushed aside the heavy iron-bound door and entered. Smoke wafted out, along with the sound of clattering dice and amused chatter.

  Lad looked up at the empty windows of the shoe factory. It was nearing the dinner hour, and work had ceased for the day. Foot traffic was brisk, and two others entered the pub. Lad followed them in. His eyes instantly pierced the dark, smoky atmosphere, and he scanned the room. It was still early, so the place wasn’t very busy yet. About a score of patrons played cards, threw dice, or drank at the bar. Lad drew no attention, looking more like a cobbler than a killer.

  Jingles was sauntering toward the bar, jauntily swinging his walking stick. The two Enforcers, Korlak and Yance, were watching Jingles, but didn’t look upset. Lad moved to a table near the door where patrons were throwing dice, watching the pair as he listened to Jingles hail the one-eyed matron behind the bar. Lad focused, and had no trouble picking out their words over the noise.

  “Evening, Lyghter!”

  “Trouble, Jingles?”

  “No, just need to speak to my people. Some privacy would be appreciated.”

  “Fine.” She tossed him a key. “Last door down the hall.”

  “Thank you. This won’t take long.” Jingles strolled over to his two Enforcers. “I’ve got a change in your work assignment. Come with me.”

  Though Korlak and Yance exchanged wary glances, Jingles’ casual manner seemed to put them at ease, and they followed him down the hall to the last door. When the door closed behind them, Lad moved. He was down the hall and through the door in a moment. As the latch clicked behind him, the two Enforcers turned at the intrusion.

  “What the hell?” Korlak’s hand dropped to the big knife at his belt.

  “Shut your mouths and listen up!” Jingles snapped. The tip of his walking stick flicked out as quick as a striking snake, hovering an inch from the Morrgrey’s nose. “This is your new guildmaster. Show some respect!”

  Lad saw fearful recognition in their eyes; they had obviously heard about him. They both took a step back, and Korlak’s hand moved away from his weapon. Not that it would have done him any good if he had tried use it. Their blood contracts prevented them from even attempting to harm either Lad or Jingles.

  “What’s this about?” Yance’s wary expression suggested that she already had a good idea.

  “This is about a broken window, a beaten shopkeeper, a threat of arson, treason, and fifteen gold crowns.” Lad stepped up and examined them carefully, though he had to crane his neck to look them in the eye. As Quebeck said, Yance stood as tall as Korlak, and the Morrgrey was not a small man.

  Lad read their guilt in the pulses pounding at their throats and the sweat beading on their brows. He could smell the rank odors of rage and fear, see the desperation in their darting eyes as they searched for an escape.

  “Did Molsen order you to toss that shop, threaten and beat Quebeck?”

  “No,” Korlak said, and Yance shot him a glare.

  “Good, the truth.” The next answer, Lad knew, would not come so easily. “I’m going to ask you some questions, and you’re going to keep telling me the truth.”

  “Why?” The defiance in Yance’s voice surprised Lad as much as the puzzling question.

  “Why am I going to ask you questions, or why are you going to tell me the truth?”

  “Both!”

  Lad fought to keep his instinctive reaction under control. The urge for violence, vengeance for their transgression, welled up in him, but five years as Mya’s shadow had taught him that punishment should not be administered without explanation. The Grandfather had killed on a whim, and Lad had vowed to never become like the monster he had destroyed. He took a breath and let it out slowly, fighting for calm.

  “I’m going to ask questions about why this incident happened so I can prevent it from happening again. You’re going to tell me the truth because your lives are mine to spend. Whether or not I choose to spend your lives will depend on your answers. But if you don’t answer, I promise you that your lives will be spent right here and now. Do you understand?”

  They just stared at him.

  “Answer him!” Jingles’ command shook them out of their silence.

  “I understand, Master,” Korlak said reluctantly.
He dropped his gaze to the floor rather than meet Lad’s eyes, though the muscles bunching at his jaw revealed his frustration. He was a big man, strong and capable. He’d undoubtedly beaten and killed many people in his lifetime, probably even before he was in the guild. His attitude was that of a life-long bully, used to using force to get what he wanted. He wasn’t accustomed to being frightened of someone half his size.

  “Well, I don’t!” Yance’s face flushed, her hands clenching in impotent rage. She looked to Jingles. “This upstart orders us to be all nice and friendly to a bunch of lack-wit shopkeepers! No more protection rackets, no more beatings, and we’re supposed to roll over like dogs? Just because he put that ring on, doesn’t make him an assassin!”

  Jingles stepped forward, but Lad raised a forestalling hand, his left hand. Upon it glinted the lustrous guildmaster’s ring—the ring he had taken from Wiggen’s dead finger. Wiggen... “You’re right, Yance. Putting on this ring doesn’t make me an assassin. What does make me an assassin…you wouldn’t believe if I told you. What this ring does make me is your master. You’ll answer my questions!”

  “Fine. Ask.”

  “Why did you extort Quebeck?”

  The two Enforcers exchanged a look.

  “We…didn’t like the changes,” Korlak answered. Yance just pressed her lips in a thin line. “They seem foolish. We’ve taken protection money as long as I’ve been with the guild.”

  “So you broke your oath and went against my orders. Why? You’re being paid the exact same amount you were earning before the changes.”

  “It’s not about the money, you little—”

  Steel flashed to Yance’s throat, stopping just short of parting flesh. “One more word and it’ll be your last!” Jingles hissed. His wrist twitched, and the tip of the sword from his walking stick pricked her chin. “This is your guildmaster! Watch your tongue, or I’ll cut it out.”

  Waving Jingles back, Lad cocked his head, curious. “If it’s not about the money, Yance, what is it about?”

  “It’s about respect!” Her eyes spit knives at him as Jingles sheathed his blade. “If we don’t show these mealy-mouthed peasants who’s boss around here, they’ll think we’re weak!”