Weapon of Fear

by Chris A. Jackson

  “A trick!”

  “Just wait…”

  The squads of constables that hung around the edge of the plaza watched everyone closely, especially those who seemed less than elated. They stood, facing the crowd with shields at the ready, as if they expected to be bowled over by an angry mob at any moment.

  She examined the crowd: shopkeepers in worn suits and long aprons, charwomen with dingy skirts and rough hands, mothers carrying pink-faced babies, shipyard workers with wood chips in their hair, ne’er-do-wells missing hands, eyes, or legs and smelling of the foulest gutter. The entire spectrum of the city’s working and lower-class citizens had attended the assembly.

  A dangerous crowd, even if most of them are happy.

  An uproar caught her ear, and she looked to where a small troupe of rowdies jeered and laughed at a squad of constables. Only yesterday, the officers would have immediately set about bludgeoning the young men into submission. But Arbuckle had said there would be justice, and he evidently meant it. The squad held themselves in check, ignoring the unruly youths, though Mya could see hands on swords. The rowdies took full advantage of their new-found freedom, cat calling and making rude gestures. They traded around a rum bottle, drinking and laughing at the grim constables.

  Mya sighed, recognizing the type. There were always those few who just wanted to stir up trouble. Raucous laughter erupted, and one of the youths threw the empty bottle at the constables, where it shattered against a shield.

  And there it goes.

  The squad leader drew her sword, and the rest of her squad followed suit, stepping into a tight formation of shield-sword-shield. They took a menacing step forward. The ruffians scattered, but a couple snatched brands from the bonfire. As they ran from the plaza, they yelled back a bastardized version of Crown Prince Arbuckle’s words. “Light a fire for justice!”

  “Uh oh.” Mya moved toward the nearest alley.

  Drunk idiots with torches was a bad combination in a city this tightly packed with flammable structures. The constables intercepted one of the torch-wielding morons, dropping him to the cobbles with a shield to the face. Several others cried out in alarm, however, and cat calls started flying.

  Protests of “Damned caps!” and “Fires for justice!” ripped through the crowd like rolling thunder warned of an approaching storm.

  Mya turned and walked away. She had the distinct feeling that the celebrations were about to take a turn for the worse.

  Chapter IV

  Mya snapped awake, her eyes gritty and her left leg completely asleep, but relieved that she had survived another night. She’d barely slept at all with the noise of commoners celebrating in the streets until the small hours, worried that every bump in the night might be Hoseph coming to kill her. She lurched up from her corner and shook the pins and needles out of her leg, wondering if the city had also survived the night.

  After leaving the Imperial Plaza yesterday, she had collected her belongings from the Prickly Pair and moved into a new inn, the Tin Dulcimer. From her window on the third floor, Mya could see the entire northern half of the city. The view from the roof was even better. She had spent much of the evening watching as fires flared and were quenched, waiting for the Docks District, with its tightly packed wooden houses, inns, taverns, and warehouses to ignite into a conflagration. Her plans for the Assassins Guild would depend on how much of the city survived.

  Pulling aside the curtain, she squinted into the morning sunlight. Thin streams of smoke trailed skyward across the river, but most of the city appeared intact. She would wager that the entire constabulary had spent a sleepless night rounding up arsonists and putting out fires, however.

  Nice to know someone else isn’t sleeping, Mya thought with a great yawn.

  Once again she had spent all night with her back in the corner of the room, daggers ready, dreaming in snippets of vengeful priests appearing out of nowhere to murder her. She glanced wistfully at the bed, then away. She had work to do.

  Opening the window and leaning out, she caught sight of the nearest bridge. Traffic was brisk, though constables were questioning everyone who wanted to cross. She was surprised they were letting anyone across, but supposed someone had to serve the rich their morning tea and polish their boots.

  The streets were undoubtedly being heavily patrolled, so dressing like a commoner might be an invitation to be stopped by the authorities. Dressing as gentry, however, might get her accosted by troublemakers looking for an easy target. Not that she couldn’t defend herself, but causing a disturbance would draw unwanted attention. She planned to visit Lady T, and considering the woman’s distain for the lower classes, decided to dress as a moderately successful business woman. She donned one of her better travel dresses, but no jewelry or frippery, grabbed her simplest hat, and went down to breakfast.

  “Miss Ingrid, how are you this morning?” The innkeeper met her at the bottom of the stairs with a smile.

  Mya was still getting used to answering to her newly assumed name, but deception came easily. “I’m fine, Master Felche. And yourself?”

  The innkeeper tucked his thumbs in his belt and bounced on the balls of his feet. “Oh, very good indeed. You were lucky you checked in so early yesterday. We were full up by evening with those coming over from the north side.” The plump man lowered his voice and in a conspiratorial tone. “I don’t suppose you’d consider sharing your room?”

  “No, Master Felche, and I hope that my paying you for a week in advance was enough to ensure my privacy.” Mya smiled as she spoke, polite but firm.

  The innkeeper wilted just a little, then chuckled. “Of course, Miss Ingrid. You’ll have privacy, clean towels, two meals a day, and use of the washroom, just as we agreed. I’ll not have you saying that I cheat my guests.”

  “You run a fine establishment, Master Felche. I’m sure I’ll enjoy my stay.” Stepping around Rufus, the old tomcat the size of a mountain lynx who kept the place free of rats, Mya strode into a common room buzzing with chatter. She picked a corner table, sat with her back to the wall, and trained her ear on a promising conversation.

  “Prince Arbuckle started the first fires his own self, he did! I swear it by my right thumb!” An old man sitting at the bar held up his thumb for emphasis as he sipped a pint of stout. “He yammered on about justice for all, commoner and noble alike!”

  “That’ll be the day!” The morning maid laughed as she put a plate mounded with fried potatoes, onions, and sausage before Mya, along with a steaming cup of blackbrew and a small pitcher of cream. “Ain’t never gonna be the same justice for us as there is for the high-born.”

  Mya’s mouth watered with the heavenly aroma, and her stomach growled. Despite her healing magic, it took a lot of energy to replace all the blood she had lost. She sliced a piece of sausage and popped it in her mouth, reveling in the spicy, greasy, wonderful flavor. Adding a hearty dollop of cream to the blackbrew, she washed the bite down with a big swallow.

  “Come now, Dorid, don’t you believe Old Rhubarb.” A bargeman also seated at the bar gave the oldster a nudge. “Next he’ll have you believin’ that the milk he brings is from a cow and not from Madam Brixol down the way.”

  “Hey, a wet nurse has gotta keep the flow goin’ between jobs!” Old Rhubarb laughed and finished his pint.

  “You two stop that! You’ll put off the payin’ customers!” Dorid swatted Rhubarb with her dish towel and scowled.

  “No humor in you at all!” Rhubarb stood, his bones popping and cracking. “I’m off to business, Dorid. See you tonight.”

  Mya looked dubiously at her blackbrew and sniffed the pitcher of cream. Pushing aside the pitcher, she shifted her attention from one conversation to the next as she ate. The gossip ranged from reasonable to ridiculous, but she resolved to check the details for herself. She finished her meal, even risking the blackbrew, though she had her second and third cups without cream, and headed for the door.

  As she left the inn, Master Felche waved her over. “G
oin’ out then, are you, Miss Ingrid?”

  “Yes. I have business to conduct.”

  “Best have a care if you’re crossing the river. Not safe on the streets, I’m thinkin’. Would you like one of my boys to go along with you?”

  “I’ll be fine, thank you.”

  “Very well then.” He frowned at her lack of caution. “You’ll be back for supper?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it, Master Felche.” She donned her hat and left the inn.

  A few people still celebrated in the streets, some looking like they’d been at it all night. Even those waiting in line for the bridge were smiling and chatting. Many of the smiles turned to scowls, however, as people were confronted by the squad of eight constables manning the bridge. The constables were questioning all who wanted to pass, turning many back.

  Of course, she reasoned. The violence is happening north of the river, and most of the people perpetrating it live south of the river.

  Joining the queue, Mya listened to the constables questioning and passing judgement on those ahead of her. Only those with legitimate business across the river were being allowed to through. Mya put on her best “gentle lady” persona and waited her turn.

  “Your name, Miss?” A disheveled sergeant squinted at her, his eyes red and rimmed with dark circles. The entire squad looked tired, and the tall corporal at the sergeant’s elbow sported a burn across his cheek.

  “Ingrid Johens.”

  “Out alone this mornin’?”

  “Yes. I have an appointment across the river, but with the current unrest I chose to stay last night at an inn on the south side.”

  “Smart of you, that.” He looked her up and down. “Where you stayin’?”

  “The Tin Dulcimer.”

  “Is old Fenwick still runnin’ that place?”

  Mya adopted a confused air. “The innkeeper’s name is Master Felche, unless there are two Tin Dulcimers?”

  The sergeant quirked a smile. “Just checking your story, Miss. You understand, I’m sure.”

  “Oh! Well, yes, I understand perfectly, Sergeant. Thank you for the work you do. I do appreciate it.”

  “Very well, then.” He touched the rim of his iron cap and waved her on. “Perhaps we’ll see you on your way back this afternoon.”

  “Perhaps you will.” Mya concentrating on walking like a lady and started across. From behind, she heard the sergeant’s gruff whisper to one of his men.

  “There’s a cutie for ya, Jorren. She comes back this way, you should ask her if she needs an escort back to the Dulcimer, just to check her story, ya know.”

  “Not my type, Sergeant.”

  “They come in types?” The sergeant chuckled. “I’d settle for any type that says yes!”

  They hadn’t spoken loud enough for someone without her preternatural hearing to pick up, but Mya risked a glance back to see how much attention they were paying her. The sergeant was watching her, but his corporal had already turned back to his job. She hurried on her way, wondering if she should cross at a different bridge.

  Mya had thought long and hard about how to find Lady T’s home, and decided to simply ask one of the people who knew the city best. Other than constables—a bad idea—that meant a hackney driver. The previous night’s riots, however, meant that hackneys were few and far between. Finally she managed to hail a passing carriage.

  “Where to, Miss?”

  “Do you know of Lady Tara Monjhi?”

  “Oh, aye! Her coach is somethin’ to see! Perfect matched team of four Leonarian purebreds, she has, too!”

  “Yes, those beautiful black and white horses! Could you take me to her home, please?”

  “Of course, Miss. Half a silver crown with all the troubles on the street, I’m afraid. Takin’ my life into my hands out today, I am.”

  “Very well.” Mya climbed aboard and settled back, one hand on the door latch. If Hoseph popped into the moving carriage, she could only hope to be out the door before he could kill her.

  If she was to have any chance of recruiting him, she would have to control their first meeting. She thought about Hoseph as the carriage rumbled along, a high priest of Demia, the Grandmaster had said. She doubted he would be easy to find. She peered out the carriage window. Between the stout buildings of Midtown she caught glimpses of the towers and minarets of Temple Hill soaring into the sky. She and Lad had ventured there to deposit the injured Captain Norwood at the Temple of the Earth Mother. She shouldn’t have trouble finding Demia’s temple. Hoseph probably wouldn’t be there, however; she’d seen on a posterboard that he was wanted for questioning. She might ask some questions of her own, though, if the place wasn’t crawling with imperial guards.

  Smoke tinged the air, not enough to make her cough, but sufficient to mask the rancid smell of the river. Mya kept track of their route. The streets seemed deserted compared to the bustling crowds she’d seen previously. Many of the shops and businesses they passed were shuttered, and guards patrolled outside warehouses. The celebratory atmosphere of the Dreggars Quarters was absent. Here, constables and mounted lancers made up more than half the traffic, and those few citizens out and about walked with hurried steps and furtive glances.

  At each corner and turn she scratched a note in a small notebook. Mya would mark the maps in her book about Tsing later. She had no hope of learning Tsing as she knew her home city of Twailin, but she needed to know her way around.

  Twailin… She felt a pang of homesickness for the Golden Cockerel, Paxal the innkeeper, Dee, Sereth… Lad. Her mind drifted. Stop it, Mya. Pay attention!

  The carriage labored uphill, the staid buildings of Midtown giving way to the mansions of the Heights, as if social class rose naturally with elevation. They passed a smoldering building, the target of vengeful commoners. Though wholesale catastrophe seemed to have been averted, a few homes and businesses had been gutted by fire.

  Finally, the carriage stopped before a lofty townhouse. Roughly twice the size of the Lad’s home in Twailin, it soared four floors above the street. Tall windows, a pillared entrance, and ornate sculptures adorned the façade. If Lady T’s home was any indication, business was good for the Tsing Assassins Guild.

  Two men stood in front of the tall red-and-gold-painted door, thick arms crossed over their broad chests. Enforcers, no doubt. They watched with narrowed eyes as Mya exited the carriage.

  Here we go! Mya took a deep, calming breath while she paid the driver, then turned and approached the house with a smile and confident expression. She didn’t know what to expect here, and had to be on her toes. Hoseph had undoubtedly told Lady T what had happened, and might even be inside. The man had to be hiding somewhere.

  “I’m here to see Lady T.”

  “The lady’s not taking visitors today. If you leave your name and address, her secretary will make an appointment for you.”

  Straightforward without being blunt or rude, obviously well-enough trained to pass as an employee of a noble house. Mya was impressed. Enforcers weren’t usually so subtle.

  “She’ll see me.” Mya gestured with her hand so the sun glinted off the gold-laced obsidian ring.

  The two men stared at her finger, then glanced at one another. Mya wondered if they knew the import of what they saw, and if they even knew the Grandmaster was dead. She doubted they’d recognize the Grandmaster’s ring; only the guildmasters had known his identity. They might assume she was a guildmaster from another city. Mya didn’t really care, as long as she got in to see Lady T.

  “Your name?”

  “Mya.”

  “Come with me.” One Enforcer stepped back while the other opened the door and ushered her inside.

  “Thank you.”

  Mya refrained from gaping in awe as she stepped inside. The resplendent foyer soared three stories high, all white marble and gold leaf. Sunlight through the tall windows glinted off an enormous crystal chandelier. Across the broad expanse of floor a grandiose staircase arched and twisted like a great white serpent
to the upper landings, edged by balustrades of white marble.

  Two more Enforcers manned the hall. Mya’s escort muttered to one, “Tell her she’s got a visitor. She wears a guildmaster’s ring, but I don’t recognize her or her name.” The woman turned and strode up the stairs without a word.

  So the enforcer had misinterpreted the ring’s significance, and didn’t know her name. Mya didn’t know if that was good or bad, but it was interesting.

  “Nice place,” Mya said casually. The men just stared at her, so she resigned herself to wait in silence. She didn’t have to wait long before the messenger returned.

  “Lady T will see you. This way.”

  “Thank you.” Mya followed the woman’s broad, straight back up two flights of stairs, then down a short hall to a pair of double doors, and stopped while her escort rapped on the door.

  This is it.

  “Enter,” called a lady’s voice from within. The Enforcer pushed both doors open and stepped back, waving Mya in with a smile.

  Mya hesitated, her well-developed sense of paranoia staying her progress. For five years she had relied on Lad to warn her of danger, but Lad was gone; she had to rely on herself now. Heightening her senses, she heard the scuff of boots behind the doors, then the whisper of metal on leather as blades were drawn. That didn’t worry Mya; no assassin could harm her. But if Hoseph lurked behind one of those doors, ready to kill her with a touch… She’d have to rely on her speed. Steeling her nerves, Mya took one step forward, stopping in the doorway. “Good morning, milady.”

  Lady T stood behind an ornate desk, garbed only in a simple dressing gown. Smiling, she raised a small crossbow and aimed it at Mya’s heart. “Goodbye, Mrs. Addington.”

  To any normal person, the guildmaster would seem to be standing stock still, but Mya saw her finger twitch as she tried and failed to pull the trigger. The woman’s jaw clenched, the tension deforming the smug curve of her lips. In the silence, Mya heard the steady cadence of the woman’s heart begin to race. Four more heartbeats pounded from behind the two open doors.