Weapon of Flesh (Weapon of Flesh Trilogy)

by Jackson, Chris A.

  “Why, yes!” Forbish offered his hand and gripped the other’s firmly, noting the shrewd narrowing of the man’s eyes. “You are a local businessman, Master...?”

  “Jarred,” he answered, retrieving his hand and nodding to the common room. “And yes. I do my business in many inns throughout the city. I often entertain clients visiting from out of town, and I’m always looking for a new bit of local color to show off to them. Twailin is so diverse, you see.”

  “Yes, of course! Of course!” Forbish showed the man to a table, knowing immediately that this was a very important customer. The innkeeper was no novice at gauging people, and he knew that both he and his establishment were being sized up very carefully. There was scrutiny and a peculiar wariness in the man that he found discomforting. “And your business?”

  “I’m an importer.” He waved a hand inconsequentially, the bracelet chiming. “Just a middleman, so to speak. I handle merchandise between those that supply it and those who sell it to the public. For a small percentage, of course. I was told your ale selection was second to none, which is why I am here. When I entertain I like variety and local flavors.”

  “Perhaps you would like a sample of what we have to offer?” The door to the kitchen creaked as Wiggen brought the couple their dinners. Forbish cast a glance at her and smiled. “I’ll have my daughter bring you a sampler of our best ales.”

  “That would be delightful, Master Forbish. Thank you.”

  Forbish scurried off, following his daughter into the kitchen.

  “That’s a very important customer at that table, Wiggen. Get him a sample of each of our best. None of the dregs, now, mind you. In fact, tap a new barrel of the Keeshire Red. The one on tap’s been open too long.”

  “Why’s he so important?” Wiggen asked, placing the tray on the preparation table and selecting half a dozen small glasses from the rack.

  “He’s an importer! Entertains all types of rich merchants and the like! He wants to bring people here to impress them with what Twailin has to offer!”

  “Or he’s just trying to get a free drink out of a gullible innkeeper,” Wiggen said with a scoff as she went to fill the glasses.

  “Now, Wiggen, don’t you start with me! Here’s a chance to bring in some business, and you’re laughing at me! What do you want me to do, tell him he’s got to show me his money before he’s gettin’ a sip from any of my kegs?”

  “No. I’m sorry, father.” She moved into the taproom and began filling the glasses with foamy amber liquid. “Why don’t you put out a plate of cheese and bread for him to nibble. There’s that nice dark-red Liechester we got the other day. It’ll go nicely with these.”

  “An excellent idea!” Forbish snatched up one of his many knives and sawed off a corner of a warm dark loaf, and then reached for the cheese. By the time he had several thin wedges cut and placed on the plate with the bread, Wiggen was back with her tray of ales. “Let’s go present this to him together, shall we?”

  “No, father. You—”

  “Now, I won’t hear of it!” he snapped, nudging her toward the door before she could duck her head and refuse. “I want to show all of the Tap and Kettle’s best points, Wiggen, and you’re one of them, so you just straighten up and be nice to the man.”

  “All right, father, all right.” She backed through the swinging door and turned to the room, balancing the tray on one hand and brushing her hair down over her scar with the other.

  Forbish sighed and followed her to the man’s table, smiling as they approached while wishing that his daughter could see herself past the scar on her cheek. She was a beautiful young woman, but she felt that she had nothing to offer because she’d been abused, damaged beyond wanting. Forbish knew differently; he saw how men watched her, even those who had seen her scar and knew its origin. Some men were shallow enough not to see beyond it, but most were not. Why couldn’t she see that?

  “Here you are, Master Jarred. Six of our best ales, and a bite to smooth your palate between tastes.” He put the platter of bread and cheese next to the ales, and said, “Thank you, Wiggen,” as she curtsied, keeping her face averted.

  Forbish turned back to his guest. “I think that you’ll find the Highland Summerbrew to be... Master Jarred?”

  But Jarred was paying him no attention. In fact, the man was staring straight past both Forbish and Wiggen as if caught in a trance.

  Forbish glanced over his shoulder to see what the man might be staring at, and was utterly surprised to see Lad standing there with two large burlap bags balanced on one shoulder. The weight would have staggered Forbish, but Lad stood easily, waiting patiently. He realized immediately what a shock this must seem to his guests.

  “Oh, Lad! Just put those in the kitchen for me, please.”

  “Yes, Forbish.” The boy moved easily to the kitchen door, but his eyes strayed to the visitor before he left the room, undoubtedly uncomfortable under the stranger’s stare.

  “Don’t mind the boy, sir.” Forbish assured his guest. “That’s just Lad, a beggar boy I hired some time ago. He does the heavy work since my back’s gone out on me these past months, and a right strong boy he is.”

  “Of course,” Jarred said, waving his hand in dismissal and filling the air with the chiming of his bracelet. He sipped one of the ales haphazardly, and nodded. “Yes, this is very good!”

  “That one’s from the lowlands. Velrigh spring ale. It’s a bit thick for summer, but...” Forbish watched in surprise as the man took three more gulps of three other ales in quick succession. “Master Jarred, you should really take your time and savor—”

  “Time is the problem, good innkeeper. These are all very good indeed, but I’ve just remembered an appointment that I am quite late to attend.” He stood suddenly, bowing stiffly and rounding the table. “My apologies, but I must be off. I will return, you have my promise! And I will bring my associates to sample your wonderful array of ales!” He tossed a silver to Forbish even as he backed away and whirled for the door.

  “Thank you, Master Jarred.” Forbish waved, dumbfounded at the other’s abrupt departure. “Hmph.” He pocketed the silver and turned back to the kitchen, only to find Lad standing in the doorway, staring after the retreating visitor.

  “Something wrong, Lad?” Forbish asked, picking up the two trays and moving to the kitchen.

  “Who was that man, Forbish?” The boy relieved him of the platters and placed them on the table as Forbish entered the room. The innkeeper retrieved one of the untouched glasses of ale and a wedge of cheese before they were out of reach.

  “Just a customer. He’s an importer. Wanted to entertain some people here, so he wanted to sample our wares.” He tossed the small glass of ale back and sighed in contentment, nibbling at the sharp cheese.

  “Why do importers carry so many weapons?”

  “Weapons?” Forbish nearly choked on his cheese. “What weapons? He wasn’t wearing so much as a dagger!”

  “He wore four daggers and a short sword, Forbish.”

  “What?” That was Wiggen, looking worriedly at her father and Lad in turn. “What weapons?”

  “Now, Lad. Where would he put that many blades?”

  “Two of the daggers were under his sleeves, and probably made for throwing. He wore a dagger in each boot top hidden under his pants, and there was a long knife or short sword hidden under his cloak in an inverted sheath strapped to his back.”

  “What?”

  “How could you see all that?” Forbish asked skeptically.

  “One of my... I was trained to see such things, Forbish. If he was an importer, it must be a very dangerous business.”

  “Or he wasn’t an importer.” Wiggen stared first at Lad, then at her father.

  “But if he wasn’t an importer, what was he?” Forbish liberated the last untouched glass of ale from the tray and downed it at a gulp to steady his suddenly frazzled nerves. “And why did he leave so suddenly?”

  The innkeeper looked to his daughter and
Lad, but neither could answer his rhetorical question.

  “I do not understand the necessity for me to accompany you to see the Grandfather.” Jingles glared at Mya and twitched his hands nervously, filling the small carriage with discordant music as they passed through the gate into the courtyard of the guildmaster’s estate. “I found the boy-weapon. My duty has been performed, and my job is finished!”

  “The necessity is that the Grandfather will not be satisfied with hearsay.” She stepped out of the carriage as it stopped and told the driver to wait. “I know him better than I care to, Jingles. He’s subtle in ways you would never understand, and he doesn’t tolerate mistakes.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know!” He exited the carriage like a man being dragged to the gallows. “I’ve never met him, and I don’t particularly care to.”

  “And I don’t particularly care what you do or don’t care to do, Jingles.” Mya narrowed her eyes at the man, someone she wouldn’t have even considered crossing words with a month ago. But her position had changed, and with it her nerve. Jingles was a senior journeyman and, technically, outranked her within the hierarchy of the guild, although his position was not directly over her. There were five divisions within the guild; she answered to Master Hunter Targus, who answered only to the Grandfather. But Mya was under direct assignment from the guildmaster, which gave her the authority to give orders that were backed by him.

  “Now, come on! Keeping him waiting won’t increase your chances of walking out of here with your skin intact.” She turned her back on him, knowing he wouldn’t dare put a knife between her ribs, at least not here and now. Later, she would have to be more careful.

  Jingles followed, muttering curses and wringing his hands to the accompaniment of the sound that had earned him his nickname.

  The lofty doors to the estate opened before they reached the top of the courtyard steps. Two armed guards bowed and ushered them into the entry hall. One of the guards she recognized, though this was a far cry from the circumstances of her first arrival into the Grandfather’s sanctuary. A rather short and skeletally thin man in a dark-red waistcoat and breeches greeted them with a nod.

  “The Grandfather is expecting you. Please follow me.”

  “My messenger arrived, then?” Mya asked, her steps falling in behind those of the new valet. She briefly wondered if this one knew how the last one had met his end.

  “Of course.” He looked back at her, his sneer a mask of derision. “How else could he be expecting you?”

  “Through some means other than my messenger, obviously. Which would mean he had someone watching me. Which would have been of concern to me. Which was why I asked if my messenger had arrived.” The valet’s neck stiffened, and she wondered if all such menials took on a mantle of inflated self-importance. “Any other questions?”

  The valet walked on without looking back, and they followed. The stream of muttered curses from Jingles increased in both volume and tone enough for her to hear the words “lunatic” and “suicidal” clearly. She just turned to him and smiled thinly, knowing that his opinion of her brazenness would better her reputation within the guild. Nobody got anywhere within the guild without earning a reputation.

  They followed the valet down a flight of stairs and along a well-lit hall. At the end was a large double door, which he opened with a key that hung on a chain under his doublet. Even before the door opened, Mya heard the sound of metal striking metal at a feverish cadence. As the portal was pushed aside and they were ushered through, her eyes widened at the spectacle.

  Upon a broad gray mat, the Grandfather sparred with three opponents. A long fighting dagger flashed in each hand as he faced three curved swords wielded expertly and in perfect coordination. His opponents were young men bearing the ringed tattoos of one of the martial guilds, their blades flashing almost too fast for Mya to see. But the Grandfather moved like a whirlwind, his dark robes fluttering and fanning out with his spinning attacks and evasions.

  Mya watched in awe; she had known that the Grandfather was skilled at arms despite his advanced years, but she had never known, nor sought to know, just how skilled. The four moved ceaselessly, attacking and defending in such a blur that she often lost track of which blade was where or even whose. As she and Jingles stood transfixed by the deadly ballet, the valet moved to a small chime set into a wooden frame beside the door. He struck a single note on the tubular rod, sending a clear tone ringing throughout the chamber.

  The sparring stopped, weapons frozen in mid-strike and parry.

  “Cease.”

  At the single word from the Grandfather, his three opponents lowered their weapons and bowed, backing away several steps. The older man glanced at the door where Mya and Jingles stood waiting.

  “Ah! Very good!” He turned back to his sparring partners. “Return to your master, gentlemen. Come back here at the same time day after tomorrow.”

  “Yes, Guildmaster!”

  As the three bowed and left through another door, Mya noticed that their tunics were drenched with sweat, their chests heaving with labored breathing. The Grandfather, on the other hand, stood relaxed and cool, his wizened features not even flushed.

  The daggers he bore vanished into his dark robes as he approached, and Mya began to wonder exactly what he was. No man could fight like that against three opponents and not break a sweat. She bowed as he came before them, fighting to keep her face neutral.

  “Dear Mya, well done!” He smiled openly at her. “And this must be Senior Journeyman ‘Jingles’ Jarred. Master Youtrin has told me good things of you. It was your sharp eye that spotted my weapon, was it not?”

  “It was, Grandfather.” Jingles bowed, the jewelry at his wrist chiming with the movement.

  “Ah, and I see how you got your nickname.” One gray eyebrow arched at the clattering silver rods. “They hold some significance, I suppose?”

  “One piece for each life that I have taken in your service, Grandfather.” He held up his hand and twitched his wrist proudly. “Twenty six in all.”

  “Impressive.” The eyebrow dropped. “Now quiet that incessant noise. I find it irritating.”

  “Yes, Grandfather.”

  “Follow me, both of you.” He turned to go as Jingles fumbled the noisy bracelet into a pocket while trying to keep it still. “First, tell me how you are sure that this was my weapon.”

  “He bore a perfect likeness to the image that Mya distributed to the bosses, Grandfather. Aside from that, other than his movements, I wouldn’t have marked him as anything other than a skinny kid.”

  “Movements?” The Grandfather whirled in mid-stride, catching both of his subordinates off guard. Mya side-stepped out of the way, but Jingles stumbled to a halt only inches from bowling into the guildmaster. “What about his movement?”

  “He, uh, moved like a dancer, Grandfather.” The two stood face to face a hand-breadth apart. Mya watched carefully, knowing the power of the Grandfather’s scrutiny. Jingles’ hand twitched behind his back, either from the long habit of rattling his bracelet, or from the need to be filled with the hilt of a weapon. “He bore two large sacks of meal on his shoulder, maybe ten-stone weight, and he stood there like he was waiting for a carriage on a street corner.”

  “Enhanced strength. Yes.” The Grandfather’s eyes narrowed. “What else?”

  “Uh, he walked like, well, like you, Grandfather. Fluid. Graceful. Even with that weight.”

  “Hmm, yes. Excellent.” He turned and walked briskly to another door, opened it without pause and ushered them through. “So the weapon was hiding in open view. Either he knew we sought him and was using the tactic, or he is still ignorant of our intentions.”

  They followed him down a short hallway that ended in three doors, one on each wall and one straight ahead. “What was your impression of the boy when you saw him, Jarred?” the Grandfather asked, working a key into the middle door. The lock clicked, and Mya heard the telltale clatter of machinery that said a trap of some
kind had just been disarmed. “Was he wary? Were his mannerisms guarded?”

  “I think he saw me for more than the simple business man that I was posing to be, Grandfather. The innkeeper called him Lad, like it was a proper name, and the boy answered him like any boy might his master. His eyes were on me the whole time, but he didn’t look afraid, just curious.”

  “The weapon cannot fear.”

  They followed him into a long, low room lit with overhead glow crystals that brightened as they entered. Shelves crowded with bottles, jars, pots and jugs lined the walls. As they followed the Grandfather, Mya gaped at the array of neatly labeled potions, elixirs, poisons and salves. The collection must have taken a lifetime to amass, several lifetimes perhaps.

  “Did the weapon recognize you for what you are?”

  “No, Grandfather. I left as quickly as I could without causing a stir after I spotted him. There was no way he could have known I was an assassin.”

  “Let us hope so.”

  The Grandfather chose a small jar from a shelf without pausing to read its label and handed it to Mya. She took it without hesitation, reading the neatly scribed lettering that described the jar’s contents. She hid her reaction, but held the jar very carefully after that. The Grandfather stepped past them both and they followed him out of the room.

  “You will use a two-phase technique to acquire the weapon, Mya.” She hid her surprise that she was being put in charge of the hunt. Jarred was her senior by two ranks, though they answered to different masters. Her being put in direct command over him was a breach in the chain of rank, but the Grandfather’s word was law. The door closed and was relocked amid the clatter of protective machinery. “Reconnaissance followed by stealthy assault.”

  “Yes, Grandfather.” They both followed as he walked briskly back toward the sparring room.

  “Choose your best man for the reconnaissance, Jarred. His goal is to discern where the weapon sleeps, if he sleeps.”

  “Yes, Grandfather.”