The Assassin's Blade

by H J Peterson

  Ichirou let go of Hiro and bowed slightly. “Of course; I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not a problem,” the doctor said as Ichirou took a seat by Hiro’s bed.

  “Is it about my leg?” Hiro asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” the doctor said. He looked uncomfortable, as if he wasn’t looking forward to telling her what he was about to say.

  That made Hiro really nervous. Something was wrong. Something was really, really wrong.

  Finally, the doctor sighed, defeated. “Inspector, we ran into a bit of a… problem while trying to repair your leg. The infection has spread to the point where it would almost certainly kill you if we were to get a Doc to fix it, and waiting for antibiotics to work would also likely kill you.”

  Hiro could feel the blood drain from her face. She had the awful feeling that she knew where this was going, but she really, really didn’t want to believe it.

  “What are you going to do, then?” Hiro had to force the question out of her.

  The doctor swallowed. “We’re going to have to amputate your leg, today.”

  One could’ve heard a pin drop in that room. Hiro felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. She felt like she’d woken up from one nightmare just to wake up to a different one. This couldn’t really be happening, could it? Amputation was for the past, when the world was at war. People didn’t have their limbs amputated those days, especially not young girls like her. But it was happening: she was going to become a cyborg, one of the people she’d been afraid of when she was a little girl, newly arrived in Königstadt from Hanjai.

  Hiro blinked back tears, trying to maintain her composure. How could all this happen?

  “How much is a mechanical leg going to cost?” Hiro forced out of her raw throat.

  “That depends on how nice you want it to be,” the doctor said. “Your average, decent mechanical limb is about ten thousand marks, give or take.”

  And there was the salt on her wound. Ten thousand marks was a lot of money: that was enough to pay for months of rent, and it was nearly a year of her paycheck. Unless she were to move back in with Ichirou and not spend a single mark for a year (thus putting even more pressure on her poor brother) she wouldn’t be able to pay for it. She would either end up with a stump of a leg and with a crutch until she could pay for it, or she would have a peg leg. Either way, she wouldn’t be able to do her job as well, and it may just cost her her job.

  Hiro let out a shaky breath. Could this day get any worse?

  Before anyone could say anything about it, someone poked their head in. Hiro quickly dried her eyes, before they could see her crying.

  “Doctor, Inspector Ikeda has a visitor,” the nurse said.

  “Who is it?” the doctor asked.

  “The emperor.”

  Oh, hell no! Hiro didn’t think she could deal with him or the press right then: the last thing she needed right then was for the press to write a story about how she broke down into tears in front of the emperor.

  But what would they say about her if she didn’t let anybody in?

  “Let him in,” Hiro said quietly. “But not the press.”

  Ichirou and the doctor both seemed a little surprised, but they didn’t question her. The doctor simply repeated her orders for the nurse (the nurse hadn’t heard her the first time) and the nurse went to accomplish the task.

  “I can help you pay for it,” Ichirou said once the nurse was gone. “I can take an extra shift at the mill; we can pay for it, together.”

  That option made Hiro sick to her stomach. She couldn’t ask him to take extra shifts: he already worked far more than she should’ve, even with Hiro moved out and paying her own way. If she let him take the bill for this, he would end up working himself to death.

  “I’m not going to let you do that, Ichirou,” Hiro said as firmly as she could. “Really: you’ve got enough on your plate without having to worry about paying for this.”

  She could tell that Ichirou wanted to argue with her, but he didn’t say anything: he didn’t get the chance. Before he could, the door opened and Manfred II, himself, walked in, accompanied by Lady von Braun.

  “I was visiting some injured men from House Eltz when one of the nurses told me you were awake,” Manfred II said as he quietly shut the door behind him. “How are you feeling? I’m guessing that everything went pretty well, if you’re already awake and lucid.”

  Hiro looked down at her hands and swallowed down the lump in her throat. He didn’t know, obviously. Even though she knew he meant well by it, it still stung: this whole thing with her leg was as fresh of a wound as she could’ve possibly had.

  Lady von Braun’s shoulders sagged a little. “Something went wrong didn’t it?”

  The doctor looked over at Hiro, a little hesitant. He was probably waiting for her permission to tell them.

  She gave a quick nod.

  He looked back at their king. “She has an infection in her knee, one that’s advanced enough that having a Doc heal it would kill her as fast as waiting for antibiotics to work. I’m afraid that Inspector Ikeda needs to have her leg amputated at the knee, and the cost of a replacement might be too much.”

  “She doesn’t have to worry about money,” Manfred II said. “House Schmitt will pay for it.”

  Hiro’s and Ichirou’s jaws dropped. He wasn’t serious, was he? Hiro knew that the money it would take to buy her a leg probably didn’t seem like much when it came down to it, but… well, she couldn’t let him do this, could she?

  “Are you sure?” she finally asked.

  “Of course, I am,” Manfred II said. “You were injured in the line of duty, inspector: it’s the least we can do.”

  She couldn’t believe it. Her life wasn’t over.

  Well, at least, that’s what she hoped.

  “Thank you,” she finally said. “Thank you so much.”

  “It’s the least we can do,” Lady von Braun said. “House von Braun would be happy to share a few thousand marks for this, too: we’ll get you the finest leg money can buy.”

  Manfred II looked over at the doctor, again. “Where do we need to take the specifications for the leg?”

  “The best shop for these things is Marx and Sons, over in Vornehm,” the doctor said. “We’ll just bring him in when we’re ready and send you the bill.” He looked back at Hiro. “We’ll do the operation in the afternoon. Hopefully, the leg will be done and ready by that time.”

  Hiro swallowed, nervous. Even with the knowledge that she would have a good leg, she didn’t want to do this: she’d rather keep the leg she was born with. She also didn’t want to die, though, so she didn’t have a choice. Her leg was going to be gone and (hopefully) replaced, whether she wanted it to or not.

  And damn, did that scare her.

  “Good luck on your surgery, Inspector,” Manfred II said. “We’ll be praying for your swift recovery.”

  Hiro nodded her thanks. She’d be praying for the same thing.

  XXXI. FRIEDRICH

  Friedrich stood in front of the mirror, leaning heavily on his cane as his mother fussed over his clothes. It had been three days since Bleeding Midnight, the name the papers had given to the night House Eltz and about twenty other noble houses in the city were attacked by rioters in the name of the Archangel. The death toll had been severe: early estimates had been all over the place, but the final count had been close to a hundred. The papers only seemed interested in talking about the sixteen noblemen killed and not the eighty-four members of the Königstadt Guard who’d died trying to protect them and the servants who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nobody was certain how many were injured. Once again, the papers were focused on the forty-one noblemen who were hurt in the attacks, but the hospitals were also filled with countless others: guards, servants, and some of the attackers. None of the attackers, from what he’d heard, had died. It had been a success for the people involved and a tragedy for the victims.

  That day was the day of the funer
al services for the nobility killed. The Königstadt Guards were to be buried at the end of the week: they were still trying to notify their families, from what Friedrich had heard. There was no pomp for the servants, though: their families were left with that responsibility. As the high-ranking members of the nobility they were, and due to the fact that some of Eltz’s business associates had been killed, they would be attending the mass funeral.

  “Mother, do you find it a little odd to be fussing over clothes for a funeral?” Friedrich asked as she adjusted his suit coat so it fell just right on his shoulders. As was traditional, every piece of clothing he wore was black. “I mean, should it really matter what I look like? This is supposed to be an event to remember the dead, not some cocktail party.”

  “If only it were so simple,” Viktoria sighed. “Every event that includes us turns into a social one, including the funerals.” She stepped back and examined her work, one hand on her chin. “Now, if you would just quit slouching, you’d look just perfect.”

  Friedrich grimaced. “I was just stabbed. In the back. Standing up straight hurts.”

  “I certainly hope sitting up straight doesn’t hurt, then,” Viktoria said. “You’re done.”

  Friedrich sat back down in his wheelchair. “Thank heaven for that.”

  Viktoria flicked him in the temple. “Oh, hush! Especially if you still want my help getting down the stairs.”

  She walked behind him and began to wheel him out of his room. “Now, let’s get going: it would be rude to keep Katalin waiting any longer than she already has.

  ***

  Katalin was, of course, more sensible with what she was wearing to the funeral than any of the Eltzs. Simple black dress without a bustle, hair done simply, no jewelry other than a set of pearl studs and her engagement ring, flat shoes, and a lace veil. Exactly how you were supposed to look when going to a funeral.

  “You look lovely,” Friedrich said when they picked her up in the carriage for the funeral.

  “Thank you, dear,” Katalin said.

  “Why won’t your parents be joining us, if I may ask?” Eltz asked. As always, he sounded annoyed, and Friedrich got the feeling that he was just looking for a reason to dislike he von Thurzós more than he already did.

  “In Magyar, it’s tradition to do good deeds to honor the dead,” she explained. “They went to Beloved Maximillia to talk with some of the people that were hurt and to make certain that their medical bills were being covered.”

  “That’s a lovely idea,” Viktoria said. She looked at her husband. “Dieter, why don’t we do something like that? It might be a good way to get more support from the common people.”

  “At this point, I don’t know that there’s any pleasing those people,” Eltz grumbled. “Look at what’s happened: the councils vote to give them the rights they kept begging for, and how do they choose to thank us? Give an inch, they’ll take a mile. We ought to go back to the old days, when we ordered, and they followed.”

  Heaven, give me the strength to not answer. Eltz wasn’t a stupid man, but sometimes, Friedrich wondered if he were blind to politics. Not the politics that happened between houses, of course, but the politics of the country at large. Things were changing, and they were changing fast. The nobility had never cooperated with the common people so much in the history of the country, and things were shifting that way more and more as the days passed. They were at a crossroads, as his professors liked to say: the nobility either had to adapt to this new world, or they would fall.

  For a man as conservative as Lord Dieter Eltz, that change wouldn’t come easy. If at all.

  It didn’t take very long for them to reach the church. The church of Heinrich the Penitent was the seat of the Gerechtist church in Vorbereich, the one where only the most important of Vorbereichers were buried. Friedrich had gone to a few funerals there over the years, though only one of them had actually been buried in the church. The one he actually remembered was his uncle’s funeral, after he was killed in the war. He remembered his aunt wailing when they closed the casket to take him to the cemetery, begging them to not take him away just yet. She’d been inconsolable throughout the entire service, and had been even worse when the time had come to actually bury the man. The display had upset his mother, and annoyed his father. He hadn’t seen his aunt since then.

  He hoped this funeral wouldn’t be like that one: he didn’t know that he could handle hearing women scream like that, again.

  The church was already full of people when they got there, but it didn’t matter: one of the benches on the side of the church had been reserved for them, due to the fact that Friedrich was in a wheelchair until the doctors decided he was healed enough to walk about on his own. The caskets lined the front of the church, and people walked by each one to say their final goodbyes. Some of the caskets were open, but most of them were closed. The closed ones made Friedrich feel queasy, even more than the open ones: the fact that they were closed meant that they’d been disfigured, that the morticians couldn’t fix them up enough for them to be presentable at a funeral. After what had happened at Eltz Manor, Friedrich’s imagination ran wild with possibilities of what had happened to the men in the closed caskets: perhaps that one had been burned alive in an explosion, maybe that one had been shot in the head, that one might have been bludgeoned to death; horror stories filled his head, and he hated it.

  One of House Eltz’s closest allies, Lord Ecker, sat next to them with his wife and their daughter, the only one of their children who’d yet to be married. Friedrich had never liked Ecker: he was cold, uncaring unless it served him, just like his father.

  “How have you been?” Friedrich heard Ecker ask his father as they sat down.

  “Fine,” Eltz said. “Mostly been working. Especially in the wake of this tragedy.”

  “Of course,” Ecker said. “They were good men. Well, most of them, anyway.” He looked to Eltz. “Is it safe to say that you’ve thought about the holes that will need to be filled due to this?”

  “In business or in the council?” Eltz asked.

  “Both,” Ecker said. “Of course, their sons will take their spots on the Noblemen’s Council: there isn’t much we can do about that. But, Lord Dubois death does leave a void in trade between Vorbereich and Rochereux. In fact, quite a few of these lords were involved in foreign trade. If we get the jump on this, we can capitalize on it and come out on top.”

  Friedrich couldn’t help but shoot a quick glare at his father. This was a new low for him; what kind of person talked about taking over the business of dead men - men that he’d called partners - before their bodies were even cold?

  “I know, I know,” Eltz said. “I was in a prime position for Lord Dubois’ business: he was considering making me a partner after Lord Saaltz’s death. Frankly, I didn’t trust him any farther than I could’ve thrown him, but luckily for us, he did us a great service in keeping his son in the dark about much of his dealings. I’m certain that it won’t take much convincing to get my hand in that business, now. And, within a few years, take it.”

  “I’ll trust you with that, then,” Ecker said. “Lord Usavi’s wife was close to mine: I’m certain I can negotiate a deal between her son and myself. He seems a little savvier and less sheltered from business, but he’ll know the implications that doing business with a house higher than his can have on his own status: he’ll be willing to play.”

  “Promise me you’ll never do business during a funeral,” Katalin whispered to Friedrich in Magyaran as the priest got up to begin the service.

  “I promise,” Friedrich said. “And you have my permission to kill me if I ever do.”

  The entire church fell silent as the priest stepped up to the pulpit.

  “My friends, we are gathered in the light of heaven today to honor the passing of our loved ones,” the priest began. “May those whom we remember today find peace in the warm light of our God and his servants.”

  “Amen,” the people in the church mumbled.r />
  “Let us pray,” the priest said.

  Everyone bowed their heads and took the hands of the people sitting on either side of them.

  “Almighty heaven, we gather with heavy hearts as we remember those who have passed,” the priest said. “May we forever remember these names: Marius Dubois, José Usavi, Joseph Kritchner, Elisabeth Hunt…”

  As the priest said the names of all the nobles killed during Bleeding Midnight, Friedrich found himself frowning. It was odd: only about seven of the lords and ladies killed were Vorbereichers. The rest were foreigners. There weren’t that many foreign houses in Vorbereich: they all seemed to prefer their own countries, unless they thought they might be able to get further ahead in Vorbereich. It was almost as if…

  Friedrich just about jumped out of his seat in realization.

  Katalin frowned, looking to him. “What is it?” She whispered under the names being said from the pulpit.

  “We need to get to the police station after this,” Friedrich said.

  Katalin’s frown only deepened, her brows furrowing. “What? Why?”

  “I have an idea.”

  ***

  The police station was its usual hive of activity when Friedrich and Katalin arrived. Officers took suspects downstairs to holding cells, inspectors rushed out to find leads, beat cops came in after shifts that took them through the city’s underbelly; it all might have been overwhelming if it weren’t for the fact that Friedrich was there for one thing: he needed to tell Hiro that the Archangel was targeting foreigners, now.

  When they got to the main office room, though, he found Hiro’s desk empty. As was Brooks’.

  “Can I help you?” One of the inspectors sitting near Hiro’s desk asked.

  “I’m looking for Inspector Ikeda,” Friedrich said. “Inspector Brooks will do, as well.”

  “Neither of them are in,” the inspector said bluntly.

  “Where are they? I… oh.” Suddenly, he remembered the papers from that day: Hiro had been found in a basement with a hole through her knee, barely breathing. Blame had, of course, fallen on the Archangel. Just like the other events of Bleeding Midnight. “Well, who can I talk to about the Archangel case, then?”