Weapon of Vengeance (Weapon of Flesh Trilogy) (6 page)

“About our…friend?”

“We may have to deal with that soon, dear Kiesha,
but I think he’s just upset.  He’ll settle down soon enough.  He always does. 
Then we’ll continue where we left off.”

“And if he’s not bluffing?”

“Then we’ll have a serious problem on our hands.” 
Hensen swirled the wine in his glass and sniffed the bouquet.  He sipped the
wine, swished it, and swallowed, then looked vaguely disappointed.  Perhaps the
fruits of his labors weren’t so sweet after all.  “Yes, a very serious problem
indeed.”

T
wenty thousand souls
…

Gazing out at a sea of tiny yellow spheres flickering
in the pre-dawn mists, Lad wondered if there were as many lamps in Twailin as
there were people.  He used to love this sight.  Many a night he had perched
high atop the bluff to enjoy the view of the flame-bejeweled city.  But as much
as he loved the city, he loved its people even more.  Twenty thousand souls
living and working, sleeping and dying, loving...  Now the view only reminded
him of one soul, the one soul that called to his, the one soul absent from this
sprawling mass of humanity.  His city…each and every street, lane, and alley as
familiar as his wife’s face.

“Wiggen.”

This would have been the tenth morning he woke
without her...if he had slept. Before Wiggen, sleep had been just a necessity,
an antidote to fatigue.  But sleeping with Wiggen had been his greatest delight. 
Beyond the lovemaking, the mere act of lying with her—skin to skin, her
familiar scent, the beat of her heart against his chest—had lulled him into
peaceful rest each night.  Lad no longer enjoyed sleeping.  The insomnia,
nightmares, and loneliness offered nothing but torment.  He had no one to lie
beside, no one to whisper to, no one to share his life with…no Wiggen.

 Lad shivered, but it wasn’t the morning chill that
snaked coolly up his spine.   Insomnia had sent him out prowling the night
before, which wasn’t unusual.  He usually found solace in prowling.  Last
night, however, he’d had a lapse.  Suddenly, he found himself by the riverside
with no memory of getting there.  The shock of realizing he’d been walking
insensate through the streets shook him badly.  He wondered what would happen
if some petty thug or cutthroat attacked him during one of these lapses.  Would
he simply stand there as a knife sliced across his throat?  Would he die? 
Would death stop the pain?

Would
anything
stop the pain and bring him
peace?

One thing might
…

Amongst those twenty thousand souls walked the one
who had killed Wiggen.

Vengeance…  Vengeance will bring
me peace
. 

The street lamps faded as the sky brightened, and
Lad swept his keen gaze toward the Eastmarket district with its tidy shops and
inns.  His eye sought out a distinctive peaked roof with four chimneys; the
Tap
and Kettle
, his home for so long.  Maybe his vengeance would bring peace
there, too, to those who had lost a daughter, an aunt, a mother...

Lissa
…

Lad’s arms ached to hold her, touch her silky hair,
feel her cheek so soft beneath his lips.  He dared not go back, even to catch a
glimpse of her.  Leaving her had felt like Wiggen dying in his arms all over
again.  If he ever went back, he didn’t know if he could ever summon the
strength to leave her again.
 
He couldn’t risk her life to satisfy his
own longings.

Lad gripped the balcony rail in frustration. 
Assassins
don’t have families
…  He squeezed the cool stone balustrade until his
fingers ached.

Dawn’s light burst from behind the distant
mountains, and the city came to life below him.  Footsteps mounted the stairs
of his townhouse to the third floor, then scuffed across the hall carpet
outside Lad’s room.  That would be Dee with breakfast.

Punctual, as always
.

Much to Mya’s chagrin, Lad had commandeered her
assistant.  By Lad’s own admission, he knew nothing about the bureaucracy of
the guild, and little of the duties of a guildmaster.  He needed someone
knowledgeable, efficient, and savvy in the ways of the guild.

Too savvy by far
, Lad thought as he glanced over
his shoulder at the opulent suite.  He would have been perfectly content with a
room in an anonymous inn somewhere, like Mya had in the
Golden Cockerel
,
but Dee had shown unexpected fortitude in his protests. 

“A guildmaster doesn’t live in a hovel, Master.  If
you want to be treated with the respect, you have to fulfill certain
expectations.  To
be
successful, you must
look
successful.”

Shortly after Lad’s reluctant agreement, Dee acquired
this three-story townhouse in Barleycorn Heights, complete with cook and maids,
though Lad had balked at submitting himself to the ministrations of a valet. 
His only mandate had been a view of the city—of Eastmarket in particular—and
minimal interference by the house staff.  He might have to play the gentleman
in this farce, but he would not tolerate anyone fussing over him.

The door opened and closed, and he listened to Dee
setting out breakfast.  The scents of blackbrew, bread, bacon, and spiced
porridge wafted onto the balcony in an aromatic tide.   Lad’s mouth watered
despite his lack of appetite.  His body knew it needed food, even if he
forgot.  Loitering another minute on the balcony, he watched the mists recede
from the rooftops below and listened to the cocks crow in the new day.

Another day without Wiggen
.

“Breakfast, Master.”

“Yes, Dee.”

Lad turned away from the beauty of the sunrise and
strode to the table, scowling at the white linen, silver flatware, and
porcelain dishes filigreed with gold.  He was a simple man with simple tastes;
this luxury rubbed him the wrong way.  Dee steadfastly remained standing—“It’s
only proper for me to wait until you’re seated, Guildmaster,” had been his
excuse—until Lad dropped into his chair.  As Dee took a chair across the table,
Lad picked up the cup of blackbrew perfectly lightened with cream and sipped.

“What letters today?”  He nodded to the short pile
at Dee’s elbow as he slathered a slice of warm bread with strawberry
preserves.  He ate mechanically, ignoring the flavors and aromas.  They only
reminded him of home, though the bread wasn’t nearly as good as Forbish’s.

“Yesterday’s progress reports from the masters,” Dee
pushed several sheets of parchment across the table, “a note from the
moneylender we set up your accounts with,” he added a formal letter that bore
the embossed crest of Lad’s bank, “and this.”  He held up an envelope, a
quizzical expression on his face.  “A private letter.  It’s sealed, so you’ll
have to open it yourself.”

“Who would be sending me a private letter?”  Lad
stuffed the rest of the bread into his mouth and chased it with a swallow of
blackbrew before snatching the envelope and reading the front.  His newly
assumed name and address gleamed black against the expensive white vellum.  “Is
this from one of the masters?  I’ve only had this name and address for three
days.  Who else would know it?”

“No, sir, it’s not from any of the masters.  It’s
possible that a local social organization obtained your new name from the lease
of the house and sent you an invitation, but…”  Dee looked dubious as his voice
trailed off, and he motioned for Lad to flip it over.  The envelope was sealed
with black wax, conspicuously smooth.  “Social clubs generally don’t use magic
to seal their missives.”

“No imprint?”  Although Lad had received few letters
in his life, he had seen enough to know that a person’s seal was their calling
card, a little bit of ego impressed in wax.  “Could it be a trap?”

“It’s possible, Master.  Pressing your ring against
the seal will tell you if there’s any dangerous magic.”

Thankful for the reminder, Lad pressed the
guildmaster’s ring to the black wax.  The mild tingle told him that the letter
was merely sealed to prevent someone other than the recipient from opening it. 
An electric jolt would have indicated a malicious spell.  He was relieved, but
knew that there were other threats that his ring would not detect.  Holding the
envelope to his nose, he inhaled, but detected no odors that would indicate
poison.  Still, he felt apprehensive.

“We
can
find out what’s written inside
without opening the envelope, can’t we?”

Dee stiffened, and his gaze dropped.  “Yes, sir.  I
hadn’t thought of that.”  He rose and walked to the ornate credenza that
dominated one wall of the suite’s salon.  After retrieving an object from a
hidden compartment in the center drawer, he returned and handed it over.

Lad took the small magical magnifying glass. 
No
wonder Dee hadn’t thought of it
.  He probably didn’t like to remember
Moirin, the barmaid who had seduced him in order to spy on Mya.  Not only had
his affair with the woman allowed her access to Mya’s business and personal
documents; when he caught her, she had taken poison to evade capture.  She’d
died in Dee’s arms.  Lad knew what that felt like.

Mya had given the glass to Lad with the simple
explanation, “You need it more than I do.”  He’d been shocked to discover the
rarity and intrinsic value of such devices.  If he sold it, Lad could afford to
buy his townhouse outright, rather than lease.  But it was too useful to sell.

Lad passed the magnifying glass over the sealed
envelope, and precise script swam up through the fine parchment.  Squinting
through the confused overlap due to the fold, he was able to decipher enough to
make him catch his breath.  Dropping the glass, he broke the seal, slipped the
letter out, and read.  The message was brief, to the point, and utterly
impossible.

Guildmaster
Lad

Twailin
Assassins Guild

It
has come to my attention that you have assumed the position of Twailin
Guildmaster.  Although you were not my first choice, I am not particularly
displeased with the outcome.

Congratulations.

Allow
me to lay down the rules.  Your unprecedented ascension to the guildmaster
position will not excuse any delay in payments to the guild.  My collectors
will continue to inspect your finances at quarter-year intervals.

You
will travel to the city of Tsing within two months of your receipt of this
letter so that we may personally discuss the particulars of your new position. 
Notify me through the usual communications channels of your anticipated date of
arrival in the city.  You will travel under your assumed identity, and engage a
room at the
Drake and Lion
inn in Tsing.  Dress appropriate to your
station, and formally for our meeting.  My representative will meet you at the
Drake
and Lion
to provide you with the details of our meeting.  Master Hunter Mya
Ewlet will accompany you to this meeting.  She will travel in the guise of your
wife to avoid unwanted attention.

Sincerely,

Grandmaster

Lad read the letter a second time, shaking his head
in disbelief as he handed it to Dee.  “This can’t be real, can it?  Doesn’t the
Grandmaster live in Tsing?”

“He does, sir.”

“It would have taken a letter at least a week to
reach Twailin by the fastest messenger.  I didn’t even have my new identity or
this house a week ago.  How could this happen?”

“I…don’t know, sir.”  Dee took the letter to the
balcony and held it up to the morning light.  “This
is
the Grandmaster’s
crest.”  Turning, he jumped to find his master right behind him.

Lad stepped back.  He didn’t try to move silently,
he just did.  At least Dee had stopped yelping when startled by Lad’s
inadvertent stealth.  Lad snatched the letter back.  “How can this be?  Are
there magical means of delivering a letter?”

Dee shrugged.  “None that I know of.  Perhaps it’s a
forgery.  If you press your ring to the crest, it should verify its
authenticity.”

Lad did as Dee suggested, and the now-familiar
tingle ran up his arm. “It’s genuine.”

Dee bit his lip.  “It could be that the letter
didn’t come from Tsing at all, but from someplace closer.  That would mean…”

Lad tensed as he finished Dee’s sentence.  “That the
Grandmaster’s here in Twailin.”

Dee shifted, obviously discomforted by the
conclusion.  “Yes, sir.”

“How could he be here?  I thought he never left
Tsing!”

“That’s what everyone
says
, sir.  When the
Grandfather was killed, he just sent intermediaries.  But no one in Twailin knows
who the Grandmaster is or what he looks like.  Only the guildmasters ever meet
him in person.”