Weapon of Fear

by Chris A. Jackson

  His current task, to assassinate the crown prince, might already be completed. Lady T had assured him that her man in the palace was well positioned and skilled. Once Arbuckle was dead, Hoseph would shift his focus to ridding the guild of the usurper, Mya. Lad seemed to have vanished. Perhaps Mya had indeed killed him.

  The rebellious Master Blade of Twailin concerned him also. Lad’s house in Twailin had been deserted when Hoseph returned. In fact, all the Twailin assassins’ homes and businesses that Hoseph knew of were also empty. No matter. Once things were settled in Tsing, the guild would hunt down those who wouldn’t pledge their loyalty. Until then, Hoseph would wait and watch for signs that Arbuckle had met his end.

  Topping the hill, Hoseph settled into his accustomed spot for spying on who came and went from the palace, a narrow alley between two grandiose buildings along the promenade.

  A shout rang out, drawing his mind from his musing. Hoseph edged into the open to see two heavy wagons turning on the wide street, maneuvering around each other as their drivers cursed. That was odd.

  He leaned out to view the palace gate. The avenue opened into a broad boulevard that girded the palace wall. The main gates had been built to impress as well as protect, a massive portcullis set in the outer curtain wall flanked by great towers. During the day, the outer gate was generally open to allow supply wagons to pass into the outer courtyard, but now the iron-bound grating was closed, guarded by four imperial guards, their halberds glinting in the sun.

  Hoseph’s heart skipped a beat. The palace closed? Is it done? Is Arbuckle dead? He emerged from the narrow alley and strolled closer, his hood drawn low to conceal his face. As the wagons departed, a noble’s carriage pulled up to the gate and one of the guards strode forward.

  “The palace is closed to visitors until further notice, milord. All morning audiences have been canceled.”

  “But I have an appointment!” The petulant whine from within the carriage garnered little sympathy from the guard.

  “All appointments have been cancelled. You’ll have to make another.”

  “This is ridiculous!”

  “I’ll mention your displeasure to Captain Ithross, milord. Now, please tell your driver to move along.” The guard backed away from the carriage as the driver applied the whip and turned the team of four prancing horses.

  Heartened, Hoseph turned and strolled back to his place of hiding, then paused to recall another narrow alley near the north wall of palace. Invoking Demia’s gift, he stepped into the Sphere of Shadow, focused upon his destination, and stepped out again. Brick walls loomed above him, echoing with the sounds of a nearby commotion. Thankfully, the crowd’s attention was focused not on him, but on the small postern gate in the palace wall.

  This entrance allowed foot traffic for small deliveries and the passage of workers. At this time of day the flow of traffic should be brisk, but the door was closed, and four more guards barred the entrance to a small crowd of commoners carrying parcels. Hoseph cocked an ear to listen.

  “I’m sorry, folks. Try back later. The gate’s closed for now.”

  “What’s this about? I’ve got perishables to deliver, and if they go bad, it’s money out of my pocket!”

  “You’ll be paid for your loss, but there’s nothing I can do. The gate’s closed.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until my captain tells me to open it.”

  “But why?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say. Now please move along.”

  Hoseph smiled. This boded well. Something had clearly happened within the palace. The gates had also been closed when Tynean Tsing II died.

  Back in the alley, Hoseph once again stepped into a mist of shadows, emerging this time in Lady T’s sitting room. After blinking away momentary dizziness, he noted that the room was empty. A careful check of her dressing room and bedroom revealed the same. He pulled the bell rope in the sitting room and paced. Presently, the door opened to admit an assassin dressed as a butler, a man well-used to Hoseph’s unannounced visits.

  “Where is she?”

  “The lady is out, Master Hoseph.”

  Generally, Hoseph would simply return at a more convenient time, but this was too important to wait for. “Tell me where she is.”

  Hoseph could see the butler weighing the wrath of Hoseph against that of his guildmaster. Finally, the more prominent threat won out.

  “She’s meeting with Master Lakshmi.”

  “Excellent!” Hoseph visualized his destination and disappeared.

  He arrived in a narrow dead-end alley from which he could observe Master Inquisitor Lakshmi’s bath house. He reeled with sudden dizziness and the twinge of a headache, undoubtedly from the change of lighting. Ignoring the dull ache, he settled down to wait.

  Shortly, Lady T’s distinctive carriage pulled up to the front door of the establishment. The driver and footmen—all assassins, of course—glared down from the grand conveyance, quelling the jealous glances of passing commoners. The ornate double doors of the bath house opened, and Lady T emerged and boarded her carriage.

  Through the window, Hoseph saw her settle into her seat, and the conveyance rumbled away from the curb. Focusing on the interior, Hoseph ghosted through the shadows and materialized in the carriage.

  Lady T jerked, steel flashing into her hand, but her features transformed quickly from anxiety to anger. "Hoseph! You’ll get yourself killed someday doing that!” She tucked away the dagger. “What’s so important that you have to disturb my work?”

  “Work?” Hoseph wrinkled his nose at the scents of exotic bath oils and perfumes that permeated the carriage. “It seems to me that I’m working while you enjoy a relaxing morning bath!”

  Lady T rolled her eyes. “I’m not relaxing. I’m conducting the day-to-day business of my guild. In fact, I’m checking on our progress with Duke Tessifus’ sons. The youngest has potential. Now, what’s so important?”

  “I believe your man has completed his task. The palace has been closed to all traffic.”

  She shrugged. “That might mean something’s happened, but there’s no way to know until we get confirmation.”

  “The reins of the empire are all but back in our hands! How can you do nothing but sit and wait?”

  “There is nothing to do but wait! You need to learn patience. If the attempt succeeded, we’ll know soon enough. If not, we’ll learn that, too, but we’ll learn nothing until the news breaks through normal channels. If we start asking questions, we’ll draw attention.”

  It galled Hoseph to admit that the woman had a point. He was used to more direct action.

  “I’ll visit you this evening.” He flicked the silver skull into his hand. “Your people should have picked up some news by then.”

  “No later than sunset. I have an appointment.”

  Hoseph nodded. “Sunset, then.” Invoking Demia’s gift, he faded into his shroud of shadows.

  Arbuckle contemplated the long list that he and Tennison had compiled, the names of those who might want him dead. The number of dukes, counts, barons, and magistrates was disconcerting. He shoved the parchment across the desk. “It would be shorter if we listed the people who didn’t want me dead.”

  Tennison shrugged. “You’ve upset a number of notable people, Milord Prince. Those accustomed to getting what they want react poorly to being told they can no longer have their way.”

  Arbuckle sighed and slumped in his chair. As a student of history, he knew that assassination was a time-honored method of eliminating rulers who displeased their subjects. His father had abused and berated the common folk for forty years, and finally someone had devised a plan to eliminate him. How ironic that the emperor—master of an empire-wide network of assassins—had himself been assassinated. Hopefully Ithross would have more luck tracking down whoever poisoned Arbuckle’s blackbrew than he had the emperor’s killer.

  The list of people who would benefit from his death haunted Arbuckle’s thoughts, but he resolved to
refrain from thinking ill of anyone until he had proof. He was not his father to intimidate his peers into submission. Vigilance seemed the only prudent course of action.

  A knock on the door interrupted Arbuckle’s reverie. Tennison slipped out and immediately returned with an imperial guard officer.

  “Milord Prince.” The young lieutenant Rhondont bowed with a flourish. “Commander Ithross and Archmage Duveau wish to inform you that their task has borne fruit. If you would like to—”

  Arbuckle was out of his chair before the woman could finish. “Take me to them immediately.”

  Following her down the steps to the main floor with blademasters stalking by his side and Tennison and Renquis trailing behind, servants, commoners, and guests of the palace scattered from their path like leaves before a gale. The opulent surroundings faded to utilitarian stone passages and plain wooden doors, as the officer led him into areas of the palace he had not seen in decades. Not since his boyhood had Arbuckle visited the service areas. He’d forgotten how austere they were.

  The lieutenant finally stopped before a nondescript door and knocked. The door opened and a woman wearing a maid’s uniformed emerged. At the sight of the crown prince she beamed and curtsied.

  “Thank you, Milord Prince! Thank you very much!” With another curtsey, she flitted down the corridor.

  Arbuckle watched her go, bemused by her apparent delight at seeing the man who had ordered her loyalty questioned. “What was that about?” he asked Ithross as he entered the captain’s chambers. A few upholstered chairs—one occupied by a weary and frowning Archmage Duveau—were set in a circle around a low table.

  “We’ve told everyone that the interviews are being conducted as a job evaluation, which allows us to ask about their duties, access to your food, their whereabouts this morning, and so on without raising suspicion. They are thanked in your name and given a small reward for their service.” He indicated a stack of silver crowns on the table.

  The archmage stood and nodded politely, but didn’t bow as he should have. “With your permission, milord, I’ll leave. I must rest. I’ll send Master Keyfur to continue the interrogations.”

  “That’s fine.” Arbuckle let the slight pass without comment. “I was informed that you discovered something, Captain.”

  “In here, milord.”

  Arbuckle followed Ithross into an adjacent room and caught his breath when he realized there was a dead man lying on the table. He recognized the wine steward instantly. The man had served him many times, on more than one occasion politely answering questions from the crown prince on the provenance of this wine or that. The man had always seemed so knowledgeable and sophisticated. Now he was dead, white spittle riming his pale lips.

  “What happened?” Arbuckle swallowed, his throat so dry the words barely scratched out.

  Master Corvecosi straightened from his examination of the corpse and bowed. “Poison, Milord Prince. Self-administered.”

  Ithross shrugged. “He arrived for his interview and seemed calm until he saw Archmage Duveau. Then he clenched his jaw, started foaming at the mouth, and collapsed. We summoned Master Corvecosi immediately, but the man was dead in seconds.”

  Corvecosi indicated the man’s mouth. “He had a false tooth that held the toxin.”

  “A false tooth?”

  “He was a professional, milord.” Ithross looked grave.

  “He was a member of the palace staff!” The words sounded ridiculous as soon as they left his mouth. My father was master of an assassins guild. Was the wine steward one of those assassins? Was the poisoned blackbrew retaliation for the death of Tynean Tsing? I had nothing to do with it!

  “I concur with the captain.” Corvecosi opened the wine steward’s mouth with a finger. “Such things are rare and expensive.”

  Arbuckle swallowed hard. “Carry on, Master Corvecosi. Captain, we need to discover all there is to know about him, but quietly. I want the Imperial Guard to conduct the investigation, even if it leads outside the palace walls. If you have trusted guards…”

  “I took the initiative to have all the imperial guards interviewed by Master Kiefer, milord. Only two didn’t pass, for reasons unrelated to this situation, and they’ve been dismissed. I’ll vouch for all the rest.”

  “Good!” The prince looked again at his would-be killer. “I suppose we can open the palace. What story can we make up about the lockdown?”

  “Already done, milord. We were conducting security drills in preparation for your coronation.”

  “Excellent! I’ll keep my appointments this afternoon, Tennison, else it will be assumed that something’s amiss.”

  “Do you think that wise, Milord Prince?” The captain looked worried.

  “I think it necessary, Captain Ithross.”

  Arbuckle made his way back to his office in silence, all the while considering the attempt on his life. He owed his survival to the paranoia of whichever long-dead ancestor had requisitioned the enchanted dinnerware. He or she must have had many enemies to go to such lengths.

  Enemies… Arbuckle hoped his defenses were sufficient to protect him He glanced at the blademasters surrounding him. Despite the spectacular failure of his father’s bodyguards, the blademasters’ solid presence—silent, vigilant, and ever watchful—reassured Arbuckle. This assassination attempt wouldn’t be the end of it.

  Who wants me dead, and what will be their next step? He didn’t dare hope that the next attempt would be so simple or so easily foiled.

  “How could this happen?” Hoseph paced the sitting room, clenching and unclenching his hands.

  “Operations don’t always proceed as intended.” Lady T’s casual tone juxtaposed the wrinkles marring her brow. “Arbuckle was definitely alive this afternoon, and my operative’s nowhere to be found. He was one of my best. If he was alive, he’d have reported in. I’ve got to conclude that he’s dead, and the attempt failed.”

  “Such failure is unheard of! You always reported success to the Grandmaster.”

  “Of course I did!” Her worry transformed to indignation. “I wouldn’t bother him with recitations of failure. If an operation doesn’t succeed, we revise our approach and try again. It’s called perseverance.”

  Hoseph glowered at her, then reigned in his temper with a deep breath. Blessed shadow of death, sooth me… “How do you propose we revise our approach? What are Arbuckle’s weaknesses?”

  “His weakness is an absurd affection for commoners. We may consider posing someone as a peasant begging an audience.” She shrugged. “His strengths are the palace itself, a company of loyal guards, and his blademasters, though after their failure to protect the emperor, I imagine their honor has been seriously besmirched. They’re undoubtedly on pins and needles.”

  A spark ignited in Hoseph’s mind. “Yes, they have been discredited…” The high priest glanced out the window at the darkening sky. Yes... Tonight. First the archives, then… “Do nothing until I contact you.”

  “What are you—”

  The lady’s question dissolved in the swirling blackness that enveloped him.

  Hoseph drifted through mist and shadow, concentrating on his earthly destination, the Temple of Koss Godslayer. He’d only been inside the temple once, long ago as an acolyte on an errand for his high priest, but once was enough.

  Unless they’ve rearranged the Great Hall. He invoked his talisman to reenter the real world, and felt no resistance. The way was clear. Though he couldn’t actually see his intended destination, he could feel when an object blocked his arrival, and adjust accordingly.

  The Sphere of Shadow faded away, but the lighting barely brightened as Hoseph materialized. Reaching out a hand, he felt a smooth wall and edged forward, his eyes growing accustomed to the dimness.

  The Great Hall of the Temple of Koss Godslayer was long and narrow and as austere as he remembered it, empty save for row upon row of hard stone benches before the altar. Worshipers of Koss Godslayer were equally austere and strictly regimented, w
ith specific hours designated for prayer, meals, sleep, and training the mind and body to exacting standards. Consequently, unlike the cults of more risqué deities like Thotris, the goddess of beauty, or Bofuli, the god of wine and merriment, who had more applicants than they could accept, few devoted themselves to the rigorous devotion of Koss Godslayer. Those who did were fanatic in their worship.

  Hoseph walked slowly down the isle between the pews and the wall toward the towering sculpture of Koss Godslayer behind the altar. Its glow-crystal eyes illuminated the cunningly wrought bas-reliefs depicting the story of Koss’ ascension. Along the right-hand wall, Koss was born of Eos All Father and a mortal woman, presented with Godslayer, the Sword of Light, and blessed by the Gods of Light. The left-hand wall depicted the coupling of Seth the Defiler and Draco Father of Dragons, the birth of their single offspring, and the unfettering of that nameless serpent onto the world to corrupt all of mortal-kind. Upon the north wall, behind the looming statue, the two stories culminated as Koss slew the serpent-god, and bonded with Godslayer, ascending to godhood as Koss Godslayer, man and weapon as one.

  Such a simplistic cult…

  The blessing granted to Koss by the Demia was the reason for Hoseph’s visit this night. Sleep being akin to death, Demia had entered and soothed Koss’ troubled dreams. It was a skill taught to her most devoted of worshipers as a final solace to the dying. Tonight, he would use that skill for a different purpose.

  Hoseph looked around to get his bearings. Earlier in the evening he had surreptitiously visited city archives and reviewed copies of the original architectural designs for the temple. Now he pictured those drawings in his mind and matched them to what he saw.

  Four large doors exited the north end of the main hall of worship, leading to the wings for the Orders of the Body, Spirit, Mind, and Sword. It was the last that interested Hoseph. Somewhere behind this door slept High Priest Saepse, the master of the blademasters of Koss Godslayer in Tsing.