Weapon of Fear

by Chris A. Jackson

  Mya wondered how many more meals her shrinking supply of coins would buy. She distained outright thievery, but she’d soon have to resort to some sort of larceny to sustain herself until she managed to get the guild—and its coffers—under her control. For now, she needed information from her spies.

  “So, has everything been all right around the Dulcimer?”

  Thumbs flew up in answer to her question. That was good; no one had yet found her hiding place.

  “Ya’ heard the big news?” Digger asked with a full mouth.

  “About the blademasters? Yes. It’s all over the city.” She cocked her head and regarded her little spies. She hadn’t brought them into her confidence, but it might be useful to know their opinions of the pulse of the city. She’d only been in Tsing a couple of weeks, but they’d lived here their entire short lives. “Someone is planning to kill the prince. What do you think will happen if they succeed?”

  The urchins exchanged glances then looked to their eldest.

  “Real trouble.” Digger shook his head. “Folks think he’s a good’un after he burnt up all the gallows. He promised ‘em justice. They ain’t gonna go back to the way it was.”

  “What do you mean by ‘real trouble’?”

  “More fires, I expect. Ain’t enough soldiers or caps in the city to keep it from happenin’.” He shrugged and grinned. “I might just help with the torches.”

  “You’d burn your own home?”

  “I got no home, remember?”

  “But if the whole city goes up in flames…”

  “Well, I don’t think folks’ll burn much south of the river, but I’d bet my left foot there won’t be a stick standin’ on the north side if they kill that prince.”

  Mya thought about this ill prophesy. One thing was true enough: nothing could stop the commoners if they chose to burn the city. Midtown and the Heights Districts would be hit hardest. That meant no nobles or rich merchants, no business or big factories, no profit to be made for the Assassins Guild. At least, not the Assassins Guild she wanted to govern. The aftermath would be horrific for the survivors, as well. The city of Tsing might cease to exist, and if the city fell and the streets ran with the blood of nobles, would there even be an empire?

  I could move guild headquarters to Twailin like Lad suggested.

  Mya rejected the thought; Twailin was too far from the center of the empire. No, the Grandmaster must remain in Tsing, which meant that Tsing had to remain intact. But that wasn’t the only issue. She didn’t know why the priest wanted to kill Arbuckle, but she would bet he was ready to install his own choice for emperor. If he gained power over the empire, her efforts to take over the guild would fail. There was only one thing to do.

  “Whacha thinkin’?” Gimp looked at her expectantly. The urchins had finished eating, and were all staring at her.

  “I’m thinking that I’ve got to keep the crown prince alive.” Mya sighed. “I’ve just got to figure out how.”

  “Kill them who’s plannin’ it first.” Digger drew his rusty kitchen knife and brandished it. “Way you fight, wouldn’t be hard.”

  “I don’t know everyone involved.” Mya recalled the names she’d overheard in Lady T’s sitting room: Seoli, Ingstrom, Graving. She’d recognize some of the others by their faces, but didn’t know their names, which would make it difficult to track them down, especially alone. “Killing just some of them won’t stop their plans, and will make the rest more wary.”

  Hoseph has got to be the driving force behind this. Cutting off the head of a snake was one sure way to stop it from striking. Unfortunately, getting her hands on a man who could disappear in a puff of smoke would be like trying to catch a fart on the breeze. But she might be able to get some help…

  “Anything going on at Lady T’s? A handkerchief in her window?”

  “Nope. She comes and goes in that big carriage of hers, but we can’t follow it.” Digger shrugged. “She’s got guards watchin’, so we can’t ride on the frame, and it’s too fast to run after.”

  “A fella came to visit late last night, and didn’t leave ’til just before sunup.” Nails grinned and nudged Digger. “I think she’s got a boyfriend.”

  “She got somethin’ to do with this?” Gimp asked.

  “Yes, but she also might be trying to help me…I think.” Mya wondered if letting the lady know that she was onto the assassination conspiracy had been a mistake. “I don’t know if I can trust her or not.”

  Mya gnawed on her nails and thought, twisting the problem this way and that to consider all possibilities. Finally she settled on one potential solution: If I can’t stop the assassins, then perhaps I can warn the target.

  She couldn’t help but laugh at the notion. Just warn the crown prince! Right, Mya. Maybe you should attend a court ball to meet him.

  “What’s funny?” Gimp asked. The urchins were staring at her.

  “Nothing. I’m just thinking.” Thinking that I must be daft!

  Getting in wasn’t the problem. The ring she wore would open the secret doors into the dwarf-wrought passage beneath the bluff, and there must be access to the palace proper from the dungeons. But the palace was enormous. She’d need a layout or floorplan to locate the prince.

  Mya scrabbled through her bag and pulled out her guide book of the city, thumbing through the pages until she found the section describing the palace. She skimmed over the obscure facts that might be fascinating to a tourist—Two hundred chamber pots? Really?—but irrelevant to an intruder. There were lovely sketches of the towers and turrets and the stained glass of the Great Hall, but no diagrams of the interior. The original structure had been built centuries ago, dwarf-wrought, the book said, though the labor of both men and dwarves had been used during periods of expansion or renovation. The last major work had been completed about a century ago.

  “No men who worked on that construction would still be alive, but dwarves…”

  “What about ’em?”

  Mya snapped out of her reverie and looked at Digger. She’d forgotten where she was again. “I need to speak to some dwarves.”

  “Well, good luck with that. They’re a closed-mouthed lot.”

  “Leave that to me. I’ve got jobs for the rest of you. Keep your eyes on the Tin Dulcimer and Lady T’s house. If anything unusual happens, I want to know right away. And ask around to see if you can locate the homes of Duke Seoli, Duchess Ingstrom, and Chief Magistrate Graving.” It never hurt to have a back-up plan in case things went awry, and she might pressure one of them into betraying their cabal.

  Gathering up her book and bag, Mya ducked out of the stable and headed back to the library. She had to learn whatever she could about the palace, then she needed to find some dwarves who were willing to talk.

  Chapter XII

  Dee reined in his mount to a walk to give it a rest while he admired the impressive vista from the crest of Forendell Pass. Though the early morning sunlight had burned the fog from the high mountains, clouds still shrouded the valleys. A tide of mist flowed like a waterfall over a high ridge, spilling down into the vale below. Soaring peaks tinged with gold surrounded them, islands floating in a lake of fog. It was an eerie wilderness to someone city-born and raised, and Dee shivered with a chill that wasn’t due entirely to the cool air.

  Danger lurked behind the beauty. Despite the empire’s tenuous peace with the ogre tribes that roamed this harsh landscape, they’d seen fearful evidence that all was not well. The skulls atop the grimly painted standards propped along the roadside were usually animal, sometimes human. Nobody took chances here. Caravans aplenty labored through the pass, always escorted by weathered men and women with crossbows, or mail-clad dwarves hefting axes. Only the fast couriers travelled the pass alone, relying on speed for safety.

  “Hell of a view, ain’t it?” Pax pulled up beside Dee and stretched in his saddle. The tough old innkeeper seemed to have settled into his torment with a resigned stoicism.

  “It is.” Dee checked his re
calcitrant mount as it shifted impatiently. Despite its labored breathing from the climb, the shaggy beast wanted to run. “We must be nearing the next way inn.”

  “Gods of Light preserve us, I can almost smell the blackbrew.” Pax gave his mount its head, and the beast lurched forward with a grunt, hooves pounding the hard and finally downhill track.

  They descended into the mists. A little more than a mile on, the road curved around a bend, then dipped down into a snug dell sheltered by tall pines. In the center of a clearing stood a compound girded by a sturdy log palisade and an iron-bound gate that now stood open. Within stood a large stone building with a steep slate roof and smoke trailing from the chimneys. The horses sprinted forward with renewed vigor, no doubt envisioning buckets of oats and piles of sweet hay.

  As they pelted toward the gates, a coach pulled by a matched team of four prancing horses surged out.

  “Whoa!” Dee reined in hard to avoid a collision. “Gods damn it! Watch where you’re—”

  As the driver hauled the horses to a stop, Dee blinked in sudden recognition. He’d know that carriage and team anywhere; he’d picked them out himself. But it was the figure that stepped out of the carriage—the mop of unruly hair, startling hazel eyes, and impossibly graceful movement—that sent a thrill up Dee’s spine.

  “Lad!” Dee cursed silently at his outburst. The near accident had drawn the eyes of all in the stable yard, and who knew where Hoseph’s spies might lurk. To cover his gaffe, he waved peremptorily at a stable boy and called loudly, “You there, lad! Come take our horses.”

  Dee dismounted and shot Paxal a warning glance, but the innkeeper was staring hard at the carriage, as if something was missing. He realized what it was. Mya! Where is she?

  “Gentlemen, I apologize for my driver’s carelessness,” Lad said with a cordial nod. He gestured toward the inn, and Dee noticed his left hand swathed in bandages. “Please, let me buy you breakfast in amends.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m afraid our horses were heading for the barn without much care for what might be coming the other way.” Dee hauled his saddlebags off his horse before the stable boy lead it away. “We’d welcome the chance to break our fast. We left our own way inn rather early this morning.”

  It took all Dee’s restraint to not pepper Lad with questions as the innkeeper led them to a private back room.

  Lad beat him to the first word as the door closed behind them. “What are you two doing here?”

  “Looking for you! We got word of the Grandmaster’s death, and—”

  “Never mind that!” Paxal’s fists clenched at his sides. “Where’s Mya?”

  Lad met the innkeeper’s ire with calm. “Mya decided to stay in Tsing.”

  “Alone?” Paxal looked skeptical. “Why?”

  “I suggested she come back to Twailin, but she said that the Grandmaster belongs in Tsing.”

  “The Grandmaster?” Dee’s gaze shot to Lad’s left hand and the bandage there. “Master, please, tell us what happened.”

  Lad reached into a pocket and held out two rings on his open palm, one made for a master’s finger, the other a guildmaster’s. “I’m not your master anymore, Dee. I’m not in the guild anymore.”

  Dee stared at him in shock. There was only one way to leave the guild…death. But then, Lad had never been a true member of the Assassins Guild. He had never signed a blood contract.

  “So…Mya took the Grandmaster's ring?”

  “Not really. I put it on her finger.” Lad rubbed his cheek and smiled. “She wasn’t happy about it.”

  Paxal growled deep in his throat. “What’s this Grandmaster’s ring, and why would you put it on Mya if she didn’t want it?”

  “It means she’s Grandmaster of the Assassins Guild, Pax,” Lad explained. “It means she’s safe. No assassin can touch her.”

  Paxal pulled up a chair and sat at the table, his anger apparently quenched by Lad’s calm explanation. “All right. Now, all I know about this situation is that Mya is in Tsing and in trouble. To help her, I need some details, and your guild’s secrets can be damned to all Nine Hells.”

  Lad told them all that had transpired in Tsing—their discovery of the Grandmaster’s identity, his involvement in Wiggen’s death, Kiesha’s torture, and how Lad’s injury had freed him to kill the Grandmaster—pausing only when a maid delivered biscuits and blackbrew. When he’d finished, Dee told him of Hoseph’s visits to Twailin.

  “But he didn’t look like you described him before. He was bald, and wore gray robes.”

  “Was he injured?” Lad asked.

  Dee shook his head. “He didn’t look hurt, but there’s no mistaking his intentions toward you and Mya. He’s out for blood, rallying the whole guild to hunt you both down.”

  “We figured as much.” Lad frowned. “Mya’s spreading the news that I’m dead. I hope Hoseph believes it.”

  “He said he wasn’t sure. If you lay low, maybe he’ll buy it.” Dee stared at the two rings Lad had laid on the table during his recitation. “You should send Sereth the rings by messenger. That way, everyone there can truthfully say that the last they saw of you was when you went off to Tsing.”

  “But what about Mya?” Paxal looked grim. “If she’s declaring herself Grandmaster, then she’s putting herself square in their sights.”

  “Yes, she is, but they can’t touch her. She intends to take the guild. Hopefully she can get the Tsing guildmaster on her side. It depends on how cozy Lady T is with Hoseph.”

  “What about the new emperor?” Dee asked. “Won’t he expect to inherit the Assassins Guild?”

  Lad shook his head. “No. The emperor seemed to despise his own son. I doubt the prince knew what his father was. Tsing’s an ugly place. The Grandmaster used the guild to terrorize the populace. If Mya can take the guild, she’ll put a stop to that.”

  “Unless someone kills her first.” Paxal scowled down at his cup.

  “She’s tougher than you think, Paxal. If anyone can turn the guild around, it’s Mya.”

  The three men sat in silence for a while, sipping their blackbrew. Finally Dee threw back the last gulp, sighed gustily, and patted the bulging saddlebags. “So, Mas—Lad, how can we help you? We’ve got money…”

  “I’ve got enough to get back to Twailin. Save it for Mya. She’ll need it if she can’t get Lady T’s support.”

  “How do we find Mya?” Paxal asked. “Tsing’s a big city.”

  “I don’t know. I left her at an inn called the Prickly Pair, just inside the east gate. We assumed they’d be looking for us, so she’ll be wary and may have moved.” Lad smiled. “She’ll be glad to see you two. She’d never admit it, but she needs friends. Someone she can trust.”

  “Well, then we better get on the road.” Paxal downed another mouthful of blackbrew and stuffed a biscuit into his jacket pocket. “We’re wastin’ daylight.”

  “Pax is right.” Dee stood and slung the saddlebags over his shoulder. “It was a pleasure working for you, sir.”

  Lad actually laughed aloud, something Dee had never before seen him do. Standing, he extended a hand. “No it wasn’t, Dee. I was horrible. You helped me immeasurably, and I’ll always be grateful.”

  In Lad’s smile, Dee could see that something on this trip had healed his former master, perhaps finally solving the riddle of his wife’s death, or maybe freeing himself from the guild. Whatever the reason, Dee was glad; Lad deserved some joy in his life. He wondered if his own trip to Tsing would have such a happy ending.

  “Aye, been to the palace a few times, I have. Deliver quarried marble when they feel like they need a new staircase or balustrade.” The dwarf quaffed ale and squinted over the rim of his tankard at Mya. “Why you want ta know?”

  “I’m writing a guide book.” Mya pulled from her bag the one she had been using—The City of Tsing, Heart of the Empire Past and Present—to show the dwarf. “This one covers the city pretty well, but has hardly anything on the palace.”

  “Why don’t y
ou ask at the palace? That seems like the place ta start.”

  Mya shook her head. “I want a different perspective, a dwarven perspective. I don’t think your people get enough credit for their work. I mean, dwarves built the original palace, right?”

  “O’course we did!” The dwarf puffed up with pride, as had the three previous dwarves she spoke with. Hopefully, this one would be able to provide her with some useful information. “Did you know that the flagstones were laid over a thousand years ago?”

  Oh, dear gods, here it comes. Mya withered at the thought of another lesson in fine stonework. She dare not be rude, for dwarves were quick to take offense, and if she angered one, she’d never get another to even say “Hello”. Instead, she pulled out a small journal, pretended to scribble notes, and tried to steer the conversation.

  “Really? That’s fascinating! But let’s start at the beginning. Dwarfs designed—”

  “The beginning! Well, fact is, dwarves lived in that hill long before Arianus Tsing plopped his arse in a chair and called it a throne. Good mining it was once, and good transport out, what with the river and ocean at hand.” The dwarf finished his tankard and waved a thick hand to the bartender for another.

  Mya fished a coin from her dwindling supply and put it on the bar. “Yes, but—”

  “So Arianus shows up, thinks the hilltop’s just the spot for a castle, and negotiates with the dwarves. Dwarves got easy access to stone, iron, copper, lead, and men got easy access to crops and timber. Mutual benefit, you see. So they make a deal, and live happily ever after!”

  “So the dwarves who lived beneath—”

  “Dwarves still live beneath the palace, forging, crafting, working on the palace whenever somethin’ needs doin’, but the good stone’s long played out.”

  Mya’s ears perked up. Now she was getting somewhere. “So, there must be dwarves who know the palace inside out.”

  “Oh, that there are.” The dwarf accepted his tankard from the bartender and sipped, thick foam whitening his moustache. “Know every stone, they do.”