“What’s his name?
“What? Why would you want to know that?”
“I want to know the people I kill.”
“Why?”
“Because not knowing them, not caring about them, would be evil. I am not evil.”
He said the last with such calm assurance that it took Mya off guard. She had never really thought of herself as evil, but she supposed that her profession could not really be called good or honorable. But she’d also grown up fighting everything and everyone around her just to survive; she had seen real evil, and snuffing out the lives of a few fat nobles in their sleep didn’t hold a candle in comparison.
“His name is Treyland Vossek Mir. Happy?”
“No, Mya. I am not happy.” He offered nothing else: no explanation, no thanks and no feeling.
“Fine, then.” She laid the map of Westmarket flat on the slab beside him and indicated a building with her fingertip. “This is where the mistress lives. He usually takes her to one of the eating establishments nearby. They eat, share a bottle of wine and go back to her place for sex.”
“What is that?”
“What is what?”
“Secks,” he said, mispronouncing the word slightly.
“You’re joking.”
He looked at her with eyes that seemed to her incapable of joking.
“I am not. I do not know the word.”
“Well, I’m not going to explain it to you.” She changed maps in a rush, pointing out the woman’s flat in the corner of the building. “She lives above a clothier. They sleep after, and that’s the best time to strike. Just wait for the sound of their breathing to change, then kill him.” She handed over the dagger he was to use. It was identical to the ones he’d used the night before.
“Same technique,” she said, handing over a rolled parchment, “different message.”
He placed the dagger and the scroll on his clothing, his face impassive.
“As for the rest of it, your orders are the same as the two last night. Don’t be seen, don’t kill anyone you don’t have to and don’t leave any clues that might implicate the Assassins’ Guild.”
“What about the woman?”
“Don’t kill her unless she sees you well enough to recognize you.” She thought his face might have twitched slightly at that, and wondered why.
“Choose the way in that is the quietest and least likely to get you spotted.”
“What about guards?” he asked, drawing a suspicious glance from her.
“This is a woman’s flat in a working quarter of the city, Lad. There aren’t any guards.”
“Okay.”
“Any other questions? We’ve got one more to go over.”
“Yes.” His eyes left the map and drew hers like a magnet. “Will you help me kill the Grandfather?”
She felt the blood leave her face as she stumbled back a step. Would she what? She set her jaw and glared at him. He was trying to make her angry again.
“I told you to stop trying to goad me!”
“I am not.”
“Then you’re stupid, Lad,” she scoffed, retrieving another parchment from her belt. “You can’t seriously expect me to help you assassinate the Grandfather. Now pay attention. This is your second target.” She pinned the parchment flat for him to see.
“I do not expect you to help me, Mya,” he said, his attention on the map, “but you have done many other things that I have not expected. I could not know if you would help me or not, unless I asked.”
“Well, now you know. Don’t ever ask me that again!”
He did not respond, his attention on the map as she had ordered. The subject had been dropped—forgotten, she hoped. If the Grandfather even caught a hint that Lad was trying to persuade her to kill her master, her life wouldn’t be worth spit.
Chapter XIX
You there!” Captain Norwood advanced on the hapless corporal, pinning him to the side of the carriage with a fist pressed to the man’s chest. “What’s your explanation for this? Viscount Dovek dead and not so much as a decent description of the assassin? Were all four of you sleeping?”
“No, sir!” The man was sweating despite the cool night air, and with good reason. The Captain would have him busted to private and cleaning sewer pipes in The Sprawls by morning if he found out any of the squad had been negligent in their duty.
“Then explain to me how the one man the four of you were told to protect is dead, while none of you have so much as a scratch!”
“It happened too fast, sir!” the poor man said, obviously shaken. “We were all on watch, three of us on the outside of the carriage and Mori inside, sittin’ right across from the viscount. One second we were rumblin’ along Wyvern Street, then we rounded the corner onto East Run, and out of nowhere this thin shape comes leapin’ out of the shadows and right through the carriage window without even touching the casement. By the time Mori even got his dagger out, the deed was done and the culprit out the other side window! Says he never seen nobody move that fast! All he saw was a blur of black.”
“The assassin came through that window?” the Captain asked skeptically, inspecting the small square portal in the carriage’s door. It was no more than twice the width of his outstretched hand. “And the carriage was moving?”
“Yes, sir! Not fast, but we were movin’ along at a jog, I’d say.”
“Have you been chewing lotus, Corporal? Nobody could get through that window at a run!”
“I wouldn’t have thought so either, sir, but that’s what happened. Truth be told, Clem was the only one to see the culprit comin’. Didn’t see nothin’ but a black shape, thin, maybe an elf. The feller just took three runnin’ steps from where he was hidin’ and dove right through. The carriage lurched when he hit the far wall inside, but by the time anyone could even so much as yell, he was out the other side and the viscount was—well, like you see him, sir.”
“Blast!” The captain released the man and wrenched open the door of the carriage. The young viscount sat there, his head pinned to the back of the carriage seat by a long stiletto, a tightly rolled note secured to the hilt with a black ribbon. “I can’t believe this! And the bastard told us!”
“Sir?” The corporal’s confused shock begged for an explanation. Norwood wasn’t usually inclined to offer information to his guardsmen, but the man had been through a lot and deserved something.
“Three days ago the count’s wife was murdered in their bed while he slept next to her. Same method. Same note. The assassin is telling us who’s next and when. There have been four more killings between then and now, two each night, and different notes and dates with each telling when the next person in that particular noble family will be killed. Two barons, another count and the duke himself have lost family members. Now the assassin’s making good his promises, and it looks like there’s nothing we can do to stop him.”
“Holy Gods! Er... sir, I mean…” The corporal’s stammering devolved into silence as the captain looked around the carriage, searching for clues. There was nothing¾nothing but a dead viscount, the dagger and the note.
“Well, I guess he didn’t have time to apologize for this one,” Norwood muttered to himself, raking his stubble of beard with his blunt nails.
“Apologize, sir?” The corporal looked even more baffled.
“Yes, Corporal, apologize is what I said!” He reached into the carriage and jerked the dagger free. The young man’s corpse slumped forward. “The other five victims had the word ‘Sorry’ written on their foreheads in their own blood. He was evidently in too big a hurry this time.”
The corporal remained wisely silent as Norwood removed the note from the dagger’s hilt. The parchment was crumpled, meaning it had been bound to the hilt before the knife was thrust through the viscount’s eye. He handed the dagger to the corporal, who took it like a man might handle a live scorpion. The note was predictable, if not informative.
“Cocky bastard!” The note was identical to the one the
y’d found with Count Dovek’s wife, except for the single line through the viscount’s name. The count’s sister was next on the list, and the date was two days away. “Well, we are not going to take any chances on this one! Corporal, I want you and your men to take charge of Count Dovek’s younger sister, Patrice. She is to be protected. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir!” The man’s face told the Captain that he was not looking forward to the assignment.
“I’m putting you on this job, Corporal, because you understand what we are dealing with here. If an assassin can kill his target inside a moving carriage with four armed guards watching, and still get away without a scratch or even a decent description, we need to step up our security.”
“Yes, sir!” The man sounded a little more steady, determination taking the place of stark fear.
“Good. I want you to draw three more guards from the roster, and give two of them crossbows. Explain to the count’s sister that she will be under house arrest for her own protection until three days hence.”
“She’s not going to like it, sir.”
“I think she might like a dagger through the eye a little less.”
“Should I tell her that?”
“If she makes trouble, yes. Just keep her alive, Corporal. We’ll handle the political consequences later.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and send word to Sergeant Tamir to step up security on the other targets. He’s coordinating the duty roster, so he’ll have to make some changes.”
“Yes, sir.”
The corporal turned and left the Captain to inspect the crime scene. There wasn’t much to inspect. He took another look at the carriage window and shook his head in amazement; it was nowhere near as wide as his shoulders. Whoever this assassin was, his skills were truly astounding.
“This reeks of magic like a wizard’s old underwear,” he growled, wondering how many more would die before they got lucky and put an end to this murdering scum.
“What is it?” Duke Mir looked up from his desk at the guard who had just knocked on his office door. The man looked decidedly ill.
“It’s Count Dovek, M’lord. He requests an audience.”
Duke Mir cringed. He’d been expecting this. The man had lost his wife and now his son, in a span of three days. The Duke’s own nephew had fallen to the same assassin, and now all the nobles were running scared. Pressure was being applied—some subtle, some not so subtle.
“Show him in.” The duke closed his ledger and steeled his nerves.
“Very well, milord.” The guard closed the door, and it reopened a moment later. Duke Mir barely recognized the man who shambled in behind the guard.
“Dovek, my good count!” He was out of his chair and around the desk before he knew what he was doing. He offered first his hand, then a warm embrace to the wreck of a man. Dovek had never been very strong; his title was inherited for the fourth generation. He was not military, and was not used to violence or death. Mir had lost loved ones to violence before. He knew how to handle the pain, knew that there would be an end to it eventually. “Hold fast, man. We’ll make them pay for this, I promise you!”
“Can you, milord?” the man asked, stifling a sob and breaking the embrace to stare imploringly into his lord’s eyes. “That devil isn’t mortal. He’s a black wraith. The guardsmen who came to look after Patrice told her. They saw it!”
“Calm yourself, Dovek. Here.” The Duke drew him away from the door to a small nook in the corner of the office. From a cupboard he produced a bottle and two glasses. “This will calm your nerves.” He poured two fingers of good brandy into each glass and pressed one into the count’s trembling hands. They both took a steadying drink.
“Now, what’s this the guards said?”
“The ones who were watching over my son. They said the one who killed him couldn’t have been human. He was all black, and he came right through the carriage’s window! They say he was a wraith!”
“Now, Dovek, they would say that just to make their own failure seem less. Wraiths don’t use daggers, and they certainly don’t leave threatening notes.”
“But the guards said—”
“The guards don’t know, Dovek! Come here.” He virtually dragged the other man over to his desk, opened a drawer and pulled out several sheets of parchment. “These are not from some wraith, my friend. They are from someone who is trying to manipulate me, both directly, by killing my nephew and threatening to kill the rest of my family, one by one, unless I do as they say, and indirectly, through threatening those in my court. I’ll wager you’ve gotten several of these the last few days.”
“Well, yes, I did get some notes that were unusual, but I didn’t think that they had anything to do with this.”
The count’s voice had changed, Mir realized. He’d made a career out of reading people’s intentions, and knew that Dovek was not wholly ignorant in this.
“I mean, people send me notes all the time asking for favors, or asking me to ask you for some favor. How do you know these are from the assassin?”
“I do have some resources, Dovek,” he said with a smile, keeping his own tone even. “Master Woefler is very adept at discerning things. The ink on the notes found on my nephew and your wife is the same as the ink on these notes, exactly the same, as is the parchment they’re written on. Just looking at them side by side, I could tell you that the hand is the same. And there’s this.” He retrieved a small clear vial half full of a dark granular material. “This is blood, my friend, the culprit’s blood. He’s human, male and no more than twenty years old, by Woefler’s reckoning. Someone is pressuring me, and they’re using the threat of killing everyone we care about to exert that pressure. It’s all about money, Dovek. They want me to relax the trade restrictions with Morgrey. The tariffs on barge traffic. It’s that simple.”
“My Lord! I never thought...” The count’s face was even paler than when he’d come in.
“I’ve got my very best man on this, Dovek. Captain Norwood has more experience hunting down scum like this than any man I know. He’ll put an end to it, I promise you.”
“But the rest of the court, milord. They’re starting to talk.” He glanced at the ever-present guards and lowered his voice. “They say if the murders don’t stop, they’ll force a vote of no-confidence on you. They’ll ask the emperor to replace you.”
“Oh, they will?” Duke Mir squared his shoulders and clenched his jaw to curb his temper. “Tell them this, then; if we accede to these threats, we will forever be under the thumb of these murderers. I will not be dictated to by those who use murder and fear to dominate others! If my court demands that I do, they will also find that I am rather noncompliant when threatened.”
“Yes, milord,” the count said with a stiff bow.
“They killed my nephew, Dovek,” he growled, his eyes narrowing to slits that would have shot arrows if they could have. “I bounced that boy on my knee thirty-five years ago. I’ll not give in. Not now, and not if every noble at court comes crying to my door.”
“Milord! I didn’t come to—”
“I know, Dovek. I know,” he said, knowing that that was exactly why Dovek had come calling. He patted the man on the shoulder and raised his glass. “To finding the murdering scum who did this, and seeing their heads roll for what they’ve done.”
The two men drank.
“Now, please, leave me. I’ve got so much work stacked up here that I’ll never get out of this damned office.”
The count bowed and left, and Duke Mir sat at his desk and sighed. He then drafted a note to his captain of the Royal Guard. The first part of the message was quite heated, and concerned the flapping mouths of his guardsmen. The second related the disturbing trend among the nobility. Count Dovek was cracking under the pressure, or had already cracked. He and others like him would have to be watched closely, before they did something stupid.
Forbish nudged the kitchen door aside with his ample stomach and pushed through, placing
a heavy bag of flour on the counter and settling another bag of rice beside it. His face was red from the exertion, and his back was in flames.
“You all right, Father?”
“Oh, fine, dear. Just my back, is all.” He straightened himself with several audible pops and forced a smile. “Nothing a night’s sleep won’t cure.”
“Do you want me to help?” Wiggen moved from behind the counter where she’d been chopping vegetables for the evening stew. “I can lift one end.”
“Thank you, Wiggen. I asked that worthless boy the miller has delivering his goods, but he said some nonsense about having to finish his rounds.” He lifted one end of the bag of rice while Wiggen lifted the other, and together they moved it into the storeroom. “He said the whole city’s stirred up like a nest of chatter vipers. Seems some rich noble got killed in his sleep, and everybody’s frettin’ like they’re next.”
“I’ve heard more than that, father,” she said as they went back through the taproom to fetch the bag of flour. “I’ve heard that six have been killed in the last four days.” She stopped when they got back to the counter, pinning Forbish with her eyes. “It’s Lad, isn’t it?”
“I think so,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. Wiggen had been close to the edge for days; any little thing sent her into tears. “I think they’ve found out a way to make him do what they want.”
“You mean they’re making him kill for them.” She took the bag of flour from him and flung it over her shoulder. “It makes me sick to think about it!”
“Here, Wiggen! Let me help. You’re going to hurt yourself!”
“I’m fine, father,” she said, “and I’m stronger than you think I am!” She strode through the taproom and heaved the bag onto the shelf with an ease that surprised him, and when she turned back to him he could see the anger in her. He’d never seen her like this.
“Now, Wiggen. Just calm down.”
Weapon of Flesh (Weapon of Flesh Trilogy) Page 21