Weapon of Vengeance (Weapon of Flesh Trilogy)

by Jackson, Chris A.

  Sereth!

  His refusal to cooperate exasperated her. The information he gave her was worth more than all the myriad scraps the rest of her operatives scavenged from the periphery. Moirin had been the best of these, insinuating herself deep into the Hunters’ headquarters, but she was gone. Truth be told, Sereth’s ultimatum frightened her. If he brought the Thieves Guild’s involvement to Lad’s attention…

  “Things could be worse for us, you know.” Hensen’s voice snapped her back to the moment. He swept a hand in an arc to indicate the view. “We should take what enjoyment we can, don’t you think?”

  “I do, sir.” Kiesha gazed out at the scarlet sunset fading into a star-studded, deep-blue veil overhead. Street lamps flickered below, a terrestrial starscape outlining the dark, sinuous track of the river. Thousands lived their entire lives down there, never even visiting the vaunted heights of the upper city. She knew that this was what Hensen meant by his comment. A laugh drew her attention back to the strutting nobles, the pretentious prigs with whom Hensen endeavored to socialize. Kiesha smiled sweetly through her disgust. If they ever learned what her father really did for money, they’d run him out of town tarred and tied to a burning lodge pole.

  So many lies…

  Her entire life was nothing but a tangled web of interconnected falsehoods. Her clothes, her manners, her training, even her obedience to the man who had sired her. Every day, she continued to live that lie. How could she not? It was all she had ever known; a father who would not even acknowledge their tie of blood. Was it any wonder that she accepted Hoseph’s offer to spy? Suddenly spiteful, Kiesha secretly hoped that Hensen would one day discover her betrayal. Even if he killed her for a traitor, it would be worth it just to see the shock on his face.

  “Do you, my dear?”

  “I’m sorry, sir?” Hensen’s question caught her off guard.

  “Do you take enjoyment?”

  “In what, sir?”

  He looked at her with a furrowed brow. “In anything, my dear.”

  What the hell is he talking about? Her face must have shown her confusion.

  He squeezed her arm and shook his head. “Never mind.” He tugged her toward the restaurant. “Shall we eat?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Their destination shone with a riot of colors, trellised in an array of flowers lit by cunningly mounted lamps, as resplendent as the gaudily clad customers. The upper floors sported glorious balconies where diners could take in the view. Luscious aromas wafted forth and, despite her foul mood, Kiesha’s mouth started to water.

  “Welcome to The Overlook, Master Hensen. It’s been too long since we enjoyed the pleasure of your company.” The hostess beamed at him, stunningly encased in a black sheath evening gown so low-cut that her toes might be visible in the cleft between her breasts if she bent over at the proper angle. She summoned a waiter with a snap of her fingers. “Sergei, take over here while I personally show Master Hensen to his table.”

  Nice of you to notice me, bitch… Kiesha bridled her spite and followed.

  The hostess batted her eyes and gently touched Hensen’s arm as she guided them to an ingenious device that lifted them up two floors without them having to climb a single step. Hensen flirted back, of course. Kiesha would have summoned a physician to check him for brain fever if he hadn’t. Once seated at a prominent balcony table, Hensen produced a gold-embossed card from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to the woman.

  “I wonder if you might call on me at your convenience.” He smiled like a crocodile. “I’m planning a private function, and I think it would benefit from a lady’s touch.”

  “It would be my pleasure, Master Hensen.” Tucking the card into her voluminous cleavage, the hostess placed Hensen’s napkin in his lap with a practiced flourish and, if her father’s spreading smile was any indication, a subtle caress.

  “Delightful. Thank you, my dear.” He watched her walk away, entranced by the swing of her hips. Finally, after his conquest passed out of view, the Master Thief returned his attention to Kiesha. “Well, that was invigorating, wasn’t it?”

  “If you say so, sir.” Hensen’s dalliances disgusted her. His paramours came and went more often than the seasons. Occasionally they would stay for months, but more often they lasted only weeks. In fact, Jeremy, his most recent, left only yesterday in a huff. Twenty-four hours was about right, as far as her father’s usual period of mourning went.

  “I do say so, my dear, and that’s exactly what I mean by enjoyment. You need to smile occasionally, or this business will make a bitter old shrew of you.” He sipped iced water with lemon and perused the menu. “And we can’t have that.”

  “No, sir.” Kiesha looked at the menu, recalling her recent similar suggestion to Sereth. He had accused her of playing manipulative games, but Kiesha had been sincere, both in her philosophy and her attempt to seduce him. It wasn’t love, of course. Sereth was in pain, and Kiesha felt her life was killing her. Mightn’t they ease each other’s woes with simple physical pleasure? Her failure made it hurt all the more. She found Hensen’s sudden interest in her enjoyment astonishing, since he usually only concerned himself with her obedience.

  “I need your honest assessment, my dear. I’d like to know what you think.”

  “I think she’s very beautiful, sir, but anyone who wears a dress like that has probably seen more naked men than the scrub girls at Kovi’s Bathhouse.”

  “Kiesha!” He shot a glare over the rim of his menu.

  “I’m sorry, sir. Was there something else you wanted my opinion on?” She knew perfectly well that wasn’t what Hensen was getting at, but she couldn’t resist the dig. To mollify him, she risked a tentative smile. “You did tell me to find some enjoyment, didn’t you?”

  “Ah, so I did. Well played.” He winked and went back to his menu. “No, I need your assessment of the city’s mood. Our opposition seems to have hit on something with this new business strategy, and if we don’t adjust our own in some way, we’re going to find ourselves in dire straits.”

  “My assessment?” His request took her aback. Hensen rarely asked her opinion. She provided information, and he made the decisions. This was something new. Maybe he does care what I think. The idea buoyed her mood as she considered what she’d seen during the last week. “I think it’s too early to tell how things are going to develop. Our opposition isn’t as weakened by the recent…infighting as we’d hoped. Their change in business strategy could cause us serious problems where our interests overlap, but the affected operations bring in only a small percentage of our total earnings. The public’s opinion of our opposition has improved, but again, this only works to our disadvantage where we overlap. We provide many services that our opposition doesn’t. In these, we should be unaffected.”

  “So, we hold the fort and wait.”

  “And watch, sir. We mustn’t forget that.”

  “Of course.” His eyes flicked up, then back to the menu. “And the investigation into their guildmaster’s recent loss? Has it borne any fruit?”

  “Not yet, sir. I’m watching that as well.” Kiesha focused on her menu, hoping Hensen wouldn’t probe. She hadn’t told him about Sereth’s ultimatum. Her failure there would only earn her punishment, and she still had the upper hand—Sereth wouldn’t dare do anything that might result in harm to his precious wife. She was sure she could convince the Master Blade to be reasonable and cooperate again. Thankfully, the arrival of their waiter precluded further questions.

  “It’s about time.” Hensen glanced at the waiter and squinted.

  Kiesha knew that look, and cringed. The fellow’s suit was wrinkled, his chin sported the shadow of whiskers, and an errant curl had escaped from his otherwise neatly clubbed hair. She found him cute, in a frazzled sort of way.

  “Have you made a decision yet, sir?”

  “Yes…” Hensen closed his menu and dropped it on the table as if offended. “I’ll have the crayfish and mussels in garlic cream sauce.”r />
  “And you, ma’am?” He picked up the dropped menu and turned to Kiesha.

  “The pork medallions in port wine sauce, please.” Kiesha handed over her menu.

  “Very good.” The waiter started to leave, but Hensen cleared his throat.

  “We would like wine, dear boy. Please have the steward pick out something nice to accompany each of our meals. And there is one more thing.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You are rude and incompetent. Proper decorum requires that you take the lady’s order first. Your manners are abysmal, your personal grooming abysmal, and your clothing disheveled.” The volume of Hensen’s voice drew glances from several nearby tables. Nobles sneered, and one young lady giggled behind her hand. “Please have the proprietor see to your appearance. Your slovenly attire and unkempt appearance have nearly ruined my appetite.”

  Kiesha’s face burned with embarrassment for the poor man.

  “I…uh…” The young man’s face flushed red.

  “Rest assured, I’ll be speaking to the proprietor when I leave.”

  The waiter stood up straighter and tugged his jacket, the muscles of his jaw twitching. “Yes, sir.” He turned on his heel and fled.

  Kiesha kept her eyes down. She’d been the focus of her father’s public ridicule far too many times to find the exchange amusing. Hensen sipped his water as if nothing had occurred. He probably felt it his civic duty to humiliate the man. Kiesha thought it abhorrent. She wondered if he’d done it to punish her for her comment about the hostess.

  It would be just like him…

  Kiesha often wondered if she loved her father or hated him. Once more, he had lifted her hopes with his barest encouragement, only to crush them into despair. Hensen acted as if the entire world was fashioned for his entertainment. He could be sweet when it served his purposes, but those times were rare.

  The problem, she realized, is that I both love and hate him.

  “Any other impressions, my dear?” Hensen seemed oblivious to her sudden shift in mood.

  With a surge of hatred overwhelming her dwindling love for him, she decided to play the one card she knew he feared above all others. It might earn her punishment, but frankly, right now she didn’t care.

  “Yes, I do have something you need to hear. It’s about our friend who works for the opposition.”

  “Yes?”

  “I met with him yesterday, and he was more than a little upset.”

  “That sounds perfectly normal. What news did he have?”

  “None. He refused to give me anything at all.”

  “What?” Hensen’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “Why didn’t you tell me about this yesterday?”

  “I was hoping to resolve the situation today, but it didn’t work out.” The lie came as easily as breathing. “He’s still stonewalling.”

  “That’s not very smart of him. Doesn’t he know there will be consequences to his actions?”

  “I made that clear to him, sir, but he said he doesn’t care anymore. He told me that if we don’t give him back what we took,” she fixed her eyes on his, “everybody concerned would share the same consequences.”

  “Did he now?” Incredulity arched Hensen’s brow, creasing the powder on his skin into fine lines.

  “Yes, sir. And I think he’s serious.” She sipped her water, her throat suddenly dry. Now for the final thrust. “He said he didn’t care if his supervisor discovered our…partnership.”

  “And do you believe him?” Lines of worry appeared between his knitted brows.

  Fear… There were few things that Hensen truly feared, but Lad was definitely on that list.

  “I don’t know, sir. He’s in a very dangerous state of mind. He might—” Kiesha stopped short as a man in an impeccable suit approached the table, the owner of The Overlook himself.

  “Well, well!” Hensen smiled at the approaching restaurateur.

  “Master Hensen, let me apologize for your unpleasant experience with our waitstaff. The fellow was new, but will not have another chance to displease anyone in my restaurant. Let me make amends.” A flick of a finger summoned the wine steward, two bottles cradled in his arms. Bowing, the steward presented them for approval. “Allow me to offer you these fine vintages free of charge.”

  “What a lovely sentiment.” Hensen examined the bottles and arched his plucked eyebrows. “A very lovely sentiment indeed. Thank you.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Master Hensen.” The restaurateur left. The steward drew the corks and poured their wine with all due ceremony, then departed.

  “To the fruits of our labors, my dear.” Hensen raised his glass to Kiesha, admiring the vintage’s light auburn hue in the candlelight before taking an appreciative sip.

  Kiesha raised her own glass a scant inch and sipped the blood-red wine. It was delicious, of course. And all it had cost was one young waiter’s job. She wondered if her father realized how often his belligerent actions made him new enemies, or if he simply didn’t care.

  “About our…friend?”

  “We may have to deal with that soon, dear Kiesha, but I think he’s just upset. He’ll settle down soon enough. He always does. Then we’ll continue where we left off.”

  “And if he’s not bluffing?”

  “Then we’ll have a serious problem on our hands.” Hensen swirled the wine in his glass and sniffed the bouquet. He sipped the wine, swished it, and swallowed, then looked vaguely disappointed. Perhaps the fruits of his labors weren’t so sweet after all. “Yes, a very serious problem indeed.”

  Chapter IV

  Twenty thousand souls…

  Gazing out at a sea of tiny yellow spheres flickering in the pre-dawn mists, Lad wondered if there were as many lamps in Twailin as there were people. He used to love this sight. Many a night he had perched high atop the bluff to enjoy the view of the flame-bejeweled city. But as much as he loved the city, he loved its people even more. Twenty thousand souls living and working, sleeping and dying, loving... Now the view only reminded him of one soul, the one soul that called to his, the one soul absent from this sprawling mass of humanity. His city…each and every street, lane, and alley as familiar as his wife’s face.

  “Wiggen.”

  This would have been the tenth morning he woke without her...if he had slept. Before Wiggen, sleep had been just a necessity, an antidote to fatigue. But sleeping with Wiggen had been his greatest delight. Beyond the lovemaking, the mere act of lying with her—skin to skin, her familiar scent, the beat of her heart against his chest—had lulled him into peaceful rest each night. Lad no longer enjoyed sleeping. The insomnia, nightmares, and loneliness offered nothing but torment. He had no one to lie beside, no one to whisper to, no one to share his life with…no Wiggen.

  Lad shivered, but it wasn’t the morning chill that snaked coolly up his spine. Insomnia had sent him out prowling the night before, which wasn’t unusual. He usually found solace in prowling. Last night, however, he’d had a lapse. Suddenly, he found himself by the riverside with no memory of getting there. The shock of realizing he’d been walking insensate through the streets shook him badly. He wondered what would happen if some petty thug or cutthroat attacked him during one of these lapses. Would he simply stand there as a knife sliced across his throat? Would he die? Would death stop the pain?

  Would anything stop the pain and bring him peace?

  One thing might…

  Amongst those twenty thousand souls walked the one who had killed Wiggen.

  Vengeance… Vengeance will bring me peace.

  The street lamps faded as the sky brightened, and Lad swept his keen gaze toward the Eastmarket district with its tidy shops and inns. His eye sought out a distinctive peaked roof with four chimneys; the Tap and Kettle, his home for so long. Maybe his vengeance would bring peace there, too, to those who had lost a daughter, an aunt, a mother...

  Lissa…

  Lad’s arms ached to hold her, touch her silky hair, feel her cheek so soft beneath his lips. He
dared not go back, even to catch a glimpse of her. Leaving her had felt like Wiggen dying in his arms all over again. If he ever went back, he didn’t know if he could ever summon the strength to leave her again. He couldn’t risk her life to satisfy his own longings.

  Lad gripped the balcony rail in frustration. Assassins don’t have families… He squeezed the cool stone balustrade until his fingers ached.

  Dawn’s light burst from behind the distant mountains, and the city came to life below him. Footsteps mounted the stairs of his townhouse to the third floor, then scuffed across the hall carpet outside Lad’s room. That would be Dee with breakfast.

  Punctual, as always.

  Much to Mya’s chagrin, Lad had commandeered her assistant. By Lad’s own admission, he knew nothing about the bureaucracy of the guild, and little of the duties of a guildmaster. He needed someone knowledgeable, efficient, and savvy in the ways of the guild.

  Too savvy by far, Lad thought as he glanced over his shoulder at the opulent suite. He would have been perfectly content with a room in an anonymous inn somewhere, like Mya had in the Golden Cockerel, but Dee had shown unexpected fortitude in his protests.

  “A guildmaster doesn’t live in a hovel, Master. If you want to be treated with the respect, you have to fulfill certain expectations. To be successful, you must look successful.”

  Shortly after Lad’s reluctant agreement, Dee acquired this three-story townhouse in Barleycorn Heights, complete with cook and maids, though Lad had balked at submitting himself to the ministrations of a valet. His only mandate had been a view of the city—of Eastmarket in particular—and minimal interference by the house staff. He might have to play the gentleman in this farce, but he would not tolerate anyone fussing over him.