Dee entered in a cloud of heavenly aromas, and placed a huge tray of pastries and blackbrew on the table.
Lad’s eyes lingered a moment on the repast before he began pacing again. “Evidently, this man can kill with a touch. Patino died without a mark on him. As to where he is now; before I could take him, he vanished in a puff of…something like smoke.”
As the masters muttered oaths of surprise and consternation, Mya poured herself a cup of blackbrew, generously buttered a scone, and began to eat. Bemrin also served himself. The others evidently weren’t hungry. Mya wasn’t hungry either, but she did her best to look as if she was enjoying every bite.
“Smoke, Master?” Enola worried her lip and shook her head. “Did it smell of brimstone?”
“It didn’t smell of anything, come to think of it, and it dissipated as soon as he vanished. Why?”
“Creatures of the Nine Hells generally leave behind bad smells or burns. A powerful priest might summon such a creature do his killing for him, though I think they tend toward violence, and would certainly leave marks on the corpse, if they even left the corpse.” She wagged a wrinkled finger. “On the other hand, a specter or ethereal devourer can kill with a touch, but they’re incorporeal.”
“He didn’t leave any trace behind, and seemed corporeal enough when I broke his arm,” Lad said.
“So, Kiesha did not kill Baron Patino. This…man did.” Bemrin’s lips pursed.
Hensen must have loved that, someone to take the blame off Kiesha. Mya washed the last bite of scone down with blackbrew, and took another pastry. “Dee, these are absolutely delicious!” she stage-whispered.
Lad glared at the interruption, stared a moment at the cheese pastry in her hand, then continued. “It fits the facts. What doesn’t fit is who in the Nine Hells this assassin is, and what happened to Kiesha.”
“Maybe he killed her, too.” If pity had been butter, Sereth’s comment wouldn’t have dampened a single slice of toast.
“We’ve found no body, but…” Bemrin shrugged.
“Bodies can be made to disappear.” Jingles twitched his wrist, his silver bracelet chiming. “Ask any catfish or alligator downriver.”
“He wasn’t concerned about disposing of Patino’s body.” Mya glanced at the others. “And I’ve had Hunters watching the docks day and night. No bodies have been dumped in the river.”
“There’s a big difference between slipping a dagger between a thief’s ribs and pushing her into the river, and hauling a baron’s corpse out of a house in Hightown.” Jingles grabbed a muffin and took a huge bite.
“Did you get a good look at him, Master?” Bemrin nibbled his pastry and sipped blackbrew.
“No.” Lad strode to the table and snatched up a scone almost as if the delicacy had offended him. Mya cheered inwardly as he took a bite. Her ploy had worked; she’d tricked him into eating something. “He wore a cloak with a deep hood. I saw his hands and caught a glimpse of his chin.”
“But he looked human.”
“Yes.” Lad took another bite and nodded, considering Enola’s question. “Yes, he seemed human. And his voice sounded perfectly normal.”
“He spoke?” Bemrin’s eyebrows arched again. “What did he say?”
“I asked him who he was, and he said, ‘The right hand of death.’” Lad swept the masters with his gaze. “Does that mean anything to anyone?”
It didn’t to Mya, and she shook her head with the others.
“Sounds like he was just trying to scare you, Master.” Sereth shrugged.
“That’s what I thought.”
“I can certainly research that phrase, Master.” Bemrin put his cup down and finished his pastry. “It might be a title of some sort.”
“Do that. And ask around the temples about death cults or priestly assassins.” Lad wolfed down the last of his pastry and resumed pacing. “Any more ideas?”
“If this man can pop in and out like a fart on the breeze and kill with a touch, I think we need to beef up security.” Jingles looked concerned. “Especially around you, Master. He could pop in while you’re sleeping and…well, off you.”
“The thought had crossed my mind.” Lad folded his arms and glowered. “Increased security’s not a bad idea. The same goes for the rest of you as well. Everyone should have bodyguards watching day and night, even when we’re sleeping. If this man tried to kill my informant just because he was asking questions about Patino, he might decide to take us all out for the same reason.”
Mya cringed at the thought of having someone standing in her bedroom while she slept. In fact, she didn’t want anyone in her apartment at all. She looked to Enola. “You think this man can just pop in anywhere?”
“Magic can accomplish amazing things,” Enola admitted. “I’m no expert on transposition spells, but I can ask some questions.”
“Do that, but be careful.” Lad snatched up another scone, and Mya stifled a smile. “Also, Enola, since you’re the only one among us who has any real experience with magic, find out what kind of spell might have killed Patino.”
“Necromancy, maybe.” Enola chewed her lip. “I’ll check on it.”
“Jingles, assign four of your best Enforcers to each of the masters, and myself as well. Two will be awake and guarding us every hour of every day.” His eyes pinned them each in turn. “Is that clear?”
While the others simply nodded and agreed, Mya looked at Lad skeptically. “Every hour?”
He stared at her for a moment, and understanding dawned in his eyes. No one else knew of Mya’s tattoos, and she wanted to keep it that way. “Barring bathing and such, of course, but someone needs to watch the room while you sleep.”
“I guess I won’t be sleeping much, then.”
Bemrin and Jingles chuckled.
“If the assassin can travel with magic, he could be anywhere. Locks and doors won’t keep anyone safe.” Lad finished the last of his scone. “What I want most is to find Kiesha, preferably alive. Hensen has given us some more ideas about where she might hide, and I want them all checked. Dee has a list. I also want everyone to start thinking about who would benefit by Patino’s death, who would order Keisha to murder my wife, and why.”
“Yes, Master,” they all said.
Mya jerked her head toward Bemrin as she said, “We’re still looking into Patino’s associations. I don’t trust Hensen’s report, since Kiesha was in charge of the investigation.”
“She’s absolutely right.” Bemrin nodded in agreement. “I don’t think we should trust anything Hensen told us.”
“Then get out there and gather the facts yourself. Add any affiliations with cults or churches to your search of Patino’s associations. If he was killed by a priest, maybe there’s some connection. I’ve got someone looking into his past, but it’ll take time.” Lad looked to Bemrin. “Try not to bring the Royal Guard down on us this time.”
“I’ll be more discreet in my inquiries, Master.” Bemrin bowed his head in subservience. Maybe he was learning a little humility.
“Do that.” Lad swept the room with his gaze once again. “If there’s nothing else, get to work.”
Mya lingered to let the other masters leave first, finishing her pastry before following. Lad had already begun pacing again, but there was another pastry missing from the tray. She smiled. Well, at least I got him to eat something.
Captain Norwood stepped down from his carriage onto the courtyard of the duke’s palace, brushing at the gooey white slobber on the leg of his trousers. The source of the noisome stain hopped down after him: four hundred pounds of canine. The two mastiffs observed their new surroundings attentively. Their hand-sized tongues lolled as they panted and drooled onto the manicured gravel drive.
“Excuse me, Captain.” A palace guard stepped forward, one hand raised in a gentle forestalling gesture. The other held a halberd, its foot-long head gleaming in the mid-morning sun. “You can’t bring those…um…pets into the palace.”
“They’re not pets, they
’re guard dogs, and they’re staying at my side.” In fact, the two mastiffs were the only reason Norwood had gotten any sleep last night after the attempt on his life. The dogs had drawn stares and questions when he stopped by his office that morning, but he couldn’t have cared less. If that murderous priest popped in, Tango and Brutus would take him apart before he could get near Norwood. “I need to see Master Woefler, and then the duke. You can admit me through the servant’s entrance so the dogs don’t startle anyone.”
“They don’t look safe to me, Captain. I’ve the security of the duke’s family and guests to consider.”
“Oh, come on, man! They’re well trained. They’re not going to eat anyone unless I tell them to.” He patted Tango and Brutus affectionately on their massive heads. “Hells, they won’t even crap on the duke’s silk rugs!”
“Well, I didn’t mean—”
“They’ll be no trouble. You have my word on it, Sergeant, and I’ll take full responsibility if they so much as piss on a potted petunia.” The attempt on his life had put him in no mood to deal with nonsense. “Now call me an escort and stand aside, or call Duke Mir, and I’ll discuss it with him.” He turned and strode for the servant’s entrance, Tango and Brutus padding along at his heels.
“But, sir!”
Norwood ignored the guard’s protestations. A footman intercepted him at the door, having watched the exchange from the main entrance. Thankfully, it was Thomsen, an old hand who knew the Norwood well.
“Don’t mind the sergeant, Captain.” The footman winked and lowered his voice. “He’s a bit of a tight arse, if you know what I mean. Now, sir, does the duke’s mage know you’re coming?”
Norwood stifled a snort of laughter. “Yes, but I’ve never been to his chambers, so I’ll need a guide. I’ll be attending the duke afterward.”
“Of course, Captain.” Thomsen raised a white-gloved hand, and a page appeared before he could even extend a finger. “Merciel, conduct Captain Norwood to Master Woefler’s quarters, then wait and take him to the duke in the gardens afterward. I’ll inform his lordship that you’ll see him at his leisure, Captain.”
“That’ll be fine.”
The page bowed to Norwood, his eyes widening at the sight of the two mastiffs. “This way, sir.”
Norwood let his mind wander as he followed the page. Despite hundreds of previous visits, it never ceased to astound him how vast the duke’s palace truly was. It had been a fully fortified king’s castle once, but the expanding Tsing Empire had swallowed the Kingdom of Twailin two centuries ago. The usurped king’s son—after watching his father’s head roll through the dirt of the outer courtyard—had readily agreed to be named duke of the new province. Since then, the duke’s palace had served as a bastion of the Noble House of Tsing in the hinterlands of Twailin.
As he walked, he contemplated his tentative plan. Just how it would work depended on what Woefler had to tell him, but more importantly, on whether the wizard would go along. If Norwood could find the leak of information, he could find the assassin. He dismissed the Assassins Guild; not only had his visitor last night not known that Norwood was conducting an investigation, but he had saved his life. That narrowed his scope. If his plan worked, and he caught the killer alive, he might even find out how this was all connected to the Fiveway Fountain massacre.
And that, he thought, would be a double feather in my cap!
Lost in thought, the captain followed the page down a flight of stairs, nearly bowling into the young man when he stopped abruptly in front of an unmarked door. The page rapped the brass clapper thrice and said loudly, “Captain Norwood to see you, Master Woefler.”
The latch clicked, and the door opened of its own accord. “Show him in.”
Norwood squinted at the brilliant light that flooded out the door, and entered the vast chamber. Three steps in, however, he stopped, his hand drifting to the hilt of his sword. Tango and Brutus growled and bristled at his heels.
Woefler turned from his seat across the room, wide eyes fixed on the dogs, his face pale. He looked more upset than Norwood had ever seen him. “What in the name of the lost books of Azrael are those things?”
“I might ask you the same thing,” the captain countered, pointing past the wizard to the figure lounging on a low divan. “Is she really on fire?”
The wizard sat upon a stool in front of an easel, his arms folded over his chest while four tiny paint brushes levitated before a startlingly lifelike painting. The model of the painting, and the subject of Norwood’s concern, was a ruddy-skinned woman no larger than a child, with hair of living flame. Her eyes gleamed red, and a gown clung to her like a second skin, as if molten gold had been poured over her curvaceous shape. Arching a fiery eyebrow at him, she plucked a glowing coal from a nearby brazier and popped it into her mouth like a tasty tidbit.
Woefler glanced over his shoulder, and then looked back to Norwood. “Yes, she is. Now please explain why you’ve brought those two monstrous dogs into my chambers.”
“These are my new bodyguards, Tango and Brutus.”
“Well, they can’t come in here. You’ll have to leave them outside.”
“Why?”
Woefler waved a hand, and his brushes descended to their paint pots. “First of all, you have no need of bodyguards in my quarters. Secondly, dogs don’t particularly care for magic. It’s said that it smells wrong to them. They tend to bite things they don’t like, so mages, as a general rule, do not care for dogs.”
The news couldn’t have pleased Norwood more. He patted the slobbering beasts affectionately. “Well, I like them quite a lot, but I suppose they can wait outside.” He turned to the page. “You don’t mind watching them for me, do you, Merciel?”
“Um…no, sir.” The youth eyed the two canines dubiously. “As long as they don’t…um…dislike pages, too.”
“They’re gentle as lambs.” Norwood nudged Tango and Brutus out of their threatening postures. “Come on, boys. Heel.” The dogs whined, seemingly reluctant to turn their backs on the wizard’s chambers, but followed. Outside, Norwood bade them to sit and stay, which they did without complaint. The page stood by nervously, still uneasy. “Don’t worry, they won’t move until I come back.”
“Yes, sir.”
Norwood went back into the room, and the door closed behind him of its own accord.
“Why in the names of all the Gods of Light do you need two dogs the size of ponies to guard your person, Captain?” Woefler seemed to have relaxed, now that the dogs were gone, but his voice still carried a burr of annoyance.
“I find them comforting.” Norwood looked around the room. Whatever he had expected of a wizard’s chambers, it was not this.
He’d imagined a small, cluttered cubby smelling of sulfur and smoke, rife with tattered books, stacks of parchment, oddments and doodads. This was more of a lavishly appointed suite than a laboratory or workshop. The chamber seemed to have been freshly cleaned by an army of obsessive maids, organized by an equally detail-oriented archivist, and decorated by someone with impeccable, if somewhat eclectic, taste. There were bookshelves, to be sure, but the volumes were neither dusty nor disorganized. Glass-fronted cabinets stood between the shelves, their contents displayed in tidy rows. These curios, however, would never be seen on a staid dowager’s mantle. Figurines of ivory, precious metals, crystal, and ebony danced, moved, and writhed on their little bases. Even the rug appeared to be animated, the threads and patterns changing and shifting as he stared. Norwood felt nauseous with all the movement as made his way to the center of the room, where comfortable divans surrounded a low table. An array of decanters, blackbrew and tea pots, jars and glass-domed serving dishes brimming with hors d’oeuvres were laid out as if for a pending party.
Lowering himself to a seat, he spoke once again. “After someone tried to kill me last night, I felt the need for additional security.”
“What?” Incredulity replaced annoyance on Woefler’s face.
“I said, someone trie
d to kill me last night.” He peered at the miniature woman. “Um, is that a…”
“Tweorijle’s from Hades, but you needn’t worry.” The wizard smiled in a dismissive manner. “She’s constrained by the circle of runes there on the floor.”
“Must you ceaselessly torment me with that word?” The tiny devil’s voice sounded like bones being ground to dust between a pair of granite blocks. Turning her blazing eyes back to Norwood, she looked him up and down. “Your visitor looks positively delicious. May I eat him?” She popped another ember into her mouth and smiled with black, burning teeth.
“No, you may not.” Woefler sighed and transferred his brushes to a pot of solvent. “Forgive me, Captain, but Tweorijle is miffed that I discovered her true name and bound her to my service.”
“I am not bound yet, Wizard.” The devil’s sensuous smile curled into a feral grin. “Not yet.”
Norwood peered closer and realized that, as the devil moved, so did her image in the painting. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what Woefler was doing, and didn’t ask.
“But you will be bound, my dear, you will be.” Woefler drew a silk cover over the painting. “That’s enough for now, I think. You may go home.” He waved a hand, and the burning woman vanished in a puff of noxious smoke. “She’s sort of a work in progress.”
“I understand.” Norwood didn’t actually, but felt safer simply agreeing rather than having Woefler elaborate to the point of petrification. Best to get right to the point. “You received the report from Tsing?”
“I did, but what’s this about an attempt on your life?” Woefler sat on one of the plush divans and poured himself a goblet of amber-hued wine. Lifting the glass cover from a platter, he asked, “Won’t you have something?”
“I’m not hungry, thank you.” The captain wondered about the array of food and drink. Had Woefler ordered all this just for him? It seemed extravagant. “I’ll explain about the attack in a minute, but I’d like to read the report from Tsing first, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.” Woefler plucked a pastry from the platter and replaced the cover.
Weapon of Vengeance (Weapon of Flesh Trilogy) Page 19