Weapon of Vengeance (Weapon of Flesh Trilogy) (7 page)

“But why would he come here?  The Grandmaster
wouldn’t ride for two weeks in a carriage just to deliver a letter!”

“I…I don’t know, sir.”  Dee bit his lip again and
took a step back, fear clear on his face.

Lad sighed in exasperation and forced his temper
down.  He couldn’t have Dee too frightened of him to speak his mind.  “I’m not
going to kill you because you don’t know everything, Dee.  Relax and finish your
blackbrew.”

“Yes, sir.”  Dee returned to the table and refilled
their cups, though his hand trembled slightly as he poured the cream.   “Do you
wish to send a reply?”

“I suppose I have to at least confirm that I got his
invitation
.”  Lad reached for more bread and preserves, his mind working
over his concerns as he chewed and swallowed.

Two months
…  The standard coach to Tsing
took almost two weeks, leaving him only six weeks to find Wiggen’s killer
before he had to leave for his meeting with the Grandmaster.  He would not—
could
not—leave Twailin before he avenged his wife.

“Draft a letter thanking him for his understanding
of the situation, and say that I’ll make every effort to be there within the
allotted time.  Make it cordial, but don’t make me sound like…” 
Like what?
 
“…his slave.”

“Yes, sir.”  Dee jotted a note in the tiny book he
kept in his pocket.  “You’ll…um…need some new clothes for the trip, sir.”

“Clothes?”  The mundane issue irritated Lad to no
end.  It seemed like just another distraction from working to find Wiggen’s
killer.  “You just bought me a whole closetful of clothes.  What’s wrong with
them?”

“Nothing, sir, but you’ll need travelling clothes,
as well as something suitable for Tsing.  It’s the capital of the empire, after
all.  And, of course, something formal for your meeting with the Grandmaster.” 
Dee sipped blackbrew, furrowing his brow as he considered his master.  “He did
stipulate formal attire, sir.  If you insult him, you’ll not live to regret
it.”

“Fine!”  Lad tossed back the last of his blackbrew
and stood.  “Buy me some new clothes.”

“You’ll want a tailor to—”

“Then hire a tailor!  Hire whoever you want!  Buy a
whole
house
full of shit I don’t need!”  He threw down his napkin and
started for the door.  “I’m going out!  I’ll read the rest of the letters
later.  Tell the masters to be here tonight at sunset.  I want to hear their
reports from their own mouths.”

Lad was out the door and halfway down the stairs to
the street before he heard Dee’s tentative, “As you wish, Master.”

The urgent knock snapped Norwood’s train of
thought.  He threw his pen down and glared at the door as it opened partway. 
“I
told
you—”

“Sir!”  The desk sergeant peered around the door,
his face a mask of worry.  “There’s a Lord Barrington here to see you.  He
requests—”

The door burst all the way open before the sergeant
could finish, and a tall man pushed his way into the captain’s office.  The
man’s brilliant green velvet jacket, gold waistcoat, and ornate rapier screamed
wealth, and the small coat of arms on his breast pocket stated as clearly as a
herald’s cry that blood as blue as a summer sky pulsed through his veins.

“Lords of the realm do not
request
anything
from the Royal Guard, Sergeant.  Your
purpose
is to serve and protect
us.”

“Your pardon, milord.”  The sergeant stepped around
the lord, his face flushed as he saluted stiffly. “Lord Barrington would like a
word with you, sir.”

“Thank you, sergeant.”  Norwood shifted his
expression from annoyance to pleasant neutrality as he stood to greet the
intruder.

Norwood disliked dealing with sanctimonious nobles,
but Lord Barrington was essentially correct.  Some nobles pushed the bounds granted
by title, influence, and money.  Lord Barrington obviously possessed all three
entitlements, and expected his due deference.  The captain had learned long ago
that a little servility—ass-kissing, as Tamir put it—was the most effective
means of dealing with this breed.

“What can the Royal Guard do for you today,
milord?”  He executed a precise military bow.

“The reason for this visit is not what you can do
for us, Captain Norwood, but what we can do for you.” 

“We, milord?”  Though of noble blood, a mere lord
was not due the royal ‘We’.

Barrington suddenly realized that he stood alone and
called sharply over his shoulder, “Leonard!”

“Sorry, father.”  A bright-eyed boy hurried in and
shut the door.  “I was just looking at the map they had out there.  It’s
fascinating!”

“Captain Norwood, this is my son Leonard.  He has
made a discovery.”

“Discovery, milord?”  Norwood shifted his attention
from the man to the boy.  “What discovery?”

“Tell the captain what you told me, Leonard.”

“Yes, sir.”  The youth turned to Norwood with the
exuberance of a pup with a stick.  “Well, sir, it’s about my arms training.  My
father though it would be best if I took dueling lessons, and we decided to
hire someone different.  Not the usual fencing master, you know.”  He paused as
if expecting a response or affirmation.

Norwood smiled patiently, stifling his desire to
wring the words out of the boy so he could get back to work.  “No, I’m afraid I
don’t know.”

“Father says most of Twailin’s arms trainers have
become staid in their techniques.  He thought someone new might…give me an
edge, so to say.  So, he sent me to this new fellow, Sereth VonBruce.  He’s got
a place on Copper Street, just south of the bridge.”  He paused again.

“All right.”  Norwood knew the street and the neighborhood,
but not the specific trainer.

“To the point, Leonard,” Lord Barrington prompted.

“Yes, sir.  Well, I was coming from my lesson the
other day, and met my friend Torrie Atchinson outside, coming from his flute
lesson.  When I pointed VonBruce out to him, he said that I was being cheated,
that VonBruce was nothing but a pretender, not a real arms master at all.”  The
young man puffed out his skinny chest and snorted in derision.  “Well, I told
him I’d be
happy
to show him a trick or two—Master VonBruce is teaching
me how to deal with dishonorable attacks—but Torrie said that VonBruce was
nothing but a bodyguard.  Said he’d seen him trailing after Master DeVough, the
fencing master Torrie used to train with.  Of course, DeVough is dead now.  He
was killed in that massacre last week, you know, and the duke even confiscated
his holdings!”

“Wait!  Horice DeVough?”

“Yes, sir.”

That name Norwood knew very well.  He had to force
himself not to glance at his diagram of the Fiveway Fountain massacre.  Horice
DeVough had warranted two pins—one for each half of his body.  Unfortunately,
by the time they had identified the body, his fencing salon had been abandoned,
and most of his employees and associates had vanished.  Only a few servants
remained at DeVough’s home, and they—if they were to be believed—knew nothing
about their master’s business.  There had been no mention of a bodyguard.

“You see?  When I found that out, I told father, and
he suggested that we come to you!”

“That was wise of you, Lord Barrington.  Thank
you.”  Norwood plucked a notebook from the clutter of his desk.  “What’s the
name of VonBruce’s training academy, please?”

“It’s called
The Dangerous End
,” Leonard
said.  “Do you think Master VonBruce was involved in the killings?”

“Oh, I doubt it,” Norwood assured the lad with a
casual smile.  He didn’t want rumors to start spreading.  “More likely his old
boss just got tangled up with the wrong sort.  Rest assured, we’ll look into
it.”

“Captain,” Lord Barrington leaned closer, his brow
wrinkled with concern, “do you think it’s dangerous for my son to continue
training there?”

“Oh, I don’t think so, but I certainly wouldn’t go
boasting about it.”  Norwood leveled a serious stare at Leonard.  “In fact, I’d
much rather you didn’t cancel your contract with VonBruce.  At least not yet. 
I’ll be sending someone down there to ask some questions, and it would be best
if the fellow didn’t find out who tipped us off.  Even if this is nothing,
there might be hard feelings.”

“And if this VonBruce was involved in the recent
violence, my son’s life is at risk.”  Barrington’s eyes flicked to his son,
then back to Norwood.

“Oh,
father
!”

“I won’t have you used as bait in some plot to—”

Norwood held up a hand.  “Please, milord, let me
explain my request.”  He nodded to the boy.  “Consider for a moment what
VonBruce might think if, after my officer shows up to ask questions, he looks
over his appointment book and sees that young Lord Barrington’s contract has
recently been cancelled.”

The elder lord pursed his lips.  “I see.”

“At present, there’s no reason to suspect that this
VonBruce is anything more than a well-trained swordsman trying to earn a living
in a career more peaceful than that of a mercenary, and more lucrative than
that of a guardsman.  It seems natural to me that he would gravitate toward his
former master’s vocation.  We’ll know more once we ask some questions, but
until we do, it would be more dangerous for your son to quit his lessons than
to continue.”

“So you suggest we simply carry on as before?”

“Exactly as before, yes.  It would be wise not to
let on that you know of VonBruce’s association with DeVough.”

“Oh, that’s no problem!”  The boy grinned like he’d
been given a secret assignment by Duke Mir himself.  “All he ever talks to me
about is where to put my feet, anyway!”

“Good.”  Norwood bowed to his visitors.  “Thank you
for bringing this to my attention.”

“I’m trying to teach my son that being a lord is
more than simply holding a title.”  Barrington fixed the boy with a meaningful
stare.  “It’s about putting the needs of the empire above your own.  As nobles,
we have a duty to uphold.”

“He’s got a fine teacher, then, milord.”  Norwood
bowed again, more to hide his smirk than as a sign of respect. 
Duty
! 
Barrington had never served in the military, and had certainly never put the
good of the empire over his own political and financial ends.  He had earned
nothing on his own, inheriting his title and fortune from his father, who had,
in turn, inherited it from his.  “Now, I must do my duty as well.”

Once the door had closed behind their noble backs,
Norwood sat down at his desk and referred to his notes.  Tamir was probably
sick of canvasing tinkers’ shops for the maker of the black darts, and might
welcome an opportunity to do a little interrogation.  He just hoped his
sergeant wasn’t too hard on the new fencing master.

M
ya
glanced up at the street sign. 
Greensleeves Way.  Almost there
.  Stopping,
she turned to look back down at the stunning view of the lower city.  The
morning sun glinted off the river in a breathtaking display, beauty reserved
for the affluent living on the hill.

“Pardon, milady.”

Mya stepped back to avoid the dust of a street
sweeper as he worked his heavy broom along the gutter.  She hurried along,
trying to remember if she’d ever seen anyone sweeping in Westmarket. 
Generally, the poorer classes just hoped for rain to wash the offal and dirt
down to the river.  Mya didn’t visit Barleycorn Heights often, but she was
getting to know the neighborhood better.  Lad’s new home stood less than a
block ahead, one of a row of stately graystone townhouses.  As she approached,
three carriages pulled up in front of the house, right on time.

A wry smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she
guessed which carriage belonged to which Assassins Guild master.  The gaudy
gold filigree had to be Bemrin, the new Master Inquisitor.  The flashy bastard
dressed like a court dandy and strutted like a cock of the walk.  The plain
black carriage with polished brass lanterns could only be Master Alchemist
Enola.  For some unfathomable reason, Enola had begun wearing all black. 

Could she actually be mourning
Neera
?  Mya
shuddered with the memory of the bestial form Neera had assumed during their
final battle.  At least Enola seemed to be saner than her predecessor.

The last of the three, a common hackney that
wouldn’t have drawn a second glance anywhere in the city, would be Jingles. 
He, at least, knew the value of discretion.  Fortunately, carriages of all
types rattled around the streets here, so none drew more than a passing glance.

Deathtraps
.  Mya chose to walk, despite the
dress and uncomfortable shoes she wore to blend in with the gentry.  Her gifts
blocked fatigue and pain, and Lad had taught her to shun carriages.  Old habits
died hard.

Movement drew her eye—Sereth, striding out of the
nearby side street.  He, too, had chosen to walk.  Spotting her, he nodded in
recognition and altered course.

Mya analyzed him as he approached.  Like most
successful assassins, Sereth wouldn’t stand out in a crowd.  Of average height
and build, his jet-black hair and olive skin indicated Morrgrey ancestry, which
was common enough in Twailin.  He wore nondescript clothing, neat and well-made. 
A rapier hung from his hip with professional ease, as befitted an up-and-coming
fencing master.  A passerby would never detect the daggers secreted in his
boots and sleeves, though Mya had no problem.  She, too, carried blades ingeniously
secreted in her clothing.

“No bodyguard?” she asked as they fell into step. 
“After working so long for Horice, I thought you’d want someone watching your
back.”

“I don’t have any enemies.”

Was that irony or a joke
?  Sereth wasn’t naïve enough to
think they didn’t all have enemies aplenty.  She noticed that he didn’t ask why
she didn’t have protection of her own.  Of course, he’d seen her rise from a
death-stroke and join Lad in the slaughter near Fiveway Fountain.  That he
walked beside her now without flinching either spoke well of his courage or
branded him a fool.

She tilted her head toward the other masters
mounting the townhouse steps, each accompanied by a bodyguard.  “Evidently, you
and I are the only ones who don’t.”

“Evidently.”  Sereth nodded absently.  “Any
progress?”

“Some.”  She fingered the vial in her pocket and
considered what Crumly had told her.

“Did you get Jingles’ note?”

“Yes.”  The news of Lad’s execution of Yance had
struck Mya like a blow.  The Lad she knew would never have murdered someone
like that.  But then, this wasn’t the Lad she knew.  “Lad’s…in a dangerous
state of mind.”

Sereth’s harsh bark of laughter caught her off
guard.  She glanced at him, but he just shook his head.  “You have a gift for
understatement.”

“Nice of you to notice.”

“Right.”

When they reached the steps, Sereth gestured for Mya
to precede him.

Gallant or paranoid?
she wondered.  Regardless, she
climbed the steps without a backward glance.  She had nothing to fear from
Sereth.  She could kill him before his dagger even cleared its sheath.

Dee met them at the door, looking dapper in a
tailored jacket and cravat, the perfect image of a wealthy gentleman’s
assistant.  He had good taste, and had always been after her to upgrade her own
quarters and wardrobe, to no avail.  It seemed he had finally found a situation
where he could exercise his talent for elegance.

“Hello, Dee.  You’re looking well.”

“Miss Mya.  I’m doing well, thank you.  The
guildmaster keeps me busy.”  He smiled, but the dark circles under his eyes
suggested that his new position wasn’t all silk sheets and roses. 

He waved them into a broad, dark-paneled hall that
ran the length of the house.  To the left, beside a wide staircase to the
second floor, sliding doors opened into a parlor.  To the right, similar doors
opened into the dining room.  Hardwood floors gleamed underfoot, and silver
vases of fresh flowers adorned every tabletop.  The other masters also looked
around curiously.

“You’ve done well with the house.”  Bemrin
scrutinized the elegant décor with an appraising eye.  “Masculine with a hint
of nouveau riche.  The guildmaster will have beautiful young gold diggers
beating down his door in no time.”

Mya glared at the tasteless remark; Lad’s wife had
been killed only weeks ago.  Dee’s appalled expression surprised her, however. 
He had never shown any particular liking for Lad. 
Why now
?  Then she
remembered Moirin.  The woman had been a spy, but she’d also been Dee’s lover. 
Her death had apparently affected him deeply enough for him to empathize with
Lad.

“This way if you please, masters.”  Dee resumed his
expression of blank attentiveness and led them down the hall.  He opened a door
at the end into an airy library.  The room boasted bookshelves on two walls,
portraits on a third, and windows that looked out onto the landscaped garden
behind the house.  Blooming shrubs colored the view, and ivy climbed the high
brick walls that ensured privacy.

Lad stood before the windows, gazing outside. 
Unmoving, he seemed to be either lost in thought or intentionally ignoring his
guests.  He was the only man Mya knew who could look graceful standing still.  She
felt a faint flutter in her chest.  Every time she saw him, she felt the same conflict—her
heart hadn’t caught up with her head yet.  She hid her consternation by
inspecting the room.

The bookshelves were filled with leather-bound
classics.  The portraits were of stern-faced men and genteel women who bore a
vague resemblance to Lad.  Dee had done well, indeed.  A visitor would assume
they were the young gentleman’s ancestors.  Lad, of course, had no living
forebears that he knew of.

Something we’ve got in common
, Mya thought,
though for
different reasons
.

The chime of Jingles’ ridiculous bracelet caught
Mya’s ear, and she glanced at the Enforcer.  He was nervous, but that was no
surprise.  They all had good reason to be nervous.  None of them knew why Lad
had called this meeting.

“The masters are here, sir,” Dee announced, his
voice oddly loud for the enclosed space.

Lad stirred, his shoulders stiffening slightly. 
“Good.”  Turning, his eyes flicked over each in turn. 

Mya tried not to fidget under his scrutiny.  She
knew he saw more than most. 
What does he see in me
?  Could he see her
fear?  Could he smell it, as she smelled the fear from Enola and Jingles?  How
did he feel about being the cause of that fear?

“Sit down.”  Lad nodded to the plushly upholstered
chairs circling a low table, but didn’t take one himself.  He looked oddly uncomfortable,
as if his clothes didn’t fit properly.  Mya suddenly realized why. 
Everything—Lad’s clothes, the room, the entire house—was perfect; it was Lad
that didn’t fit.

The masters all took seats.  Enola descended stiffly
into the nearest chair, sitting like a puppet with over-taut strings, her dark
cloak drawn around her like armor.  Bemrin flounced onto the divan with no
small measure of grace, crossing his legs and looking to his master with an
open expression, fearless in his ignorance.  Jingles sat at rigid attention,
twitching his wrist just enough to make his bracelet jingle.  Sereth was the
enigma.  Mya had never seen him show fear, even the moment after Lad had killed
his former master, but the Blade was neither cocky nor stupid.  He seemed to
face every situation with the practiced poise of a veteran warrior going into
battle, ready to face death at any moment.  He took his seat, perfectly at
ease, focused, and calm.

Did he learn that from serving
the Grandfather
? 
Mya sat beside Bemrin on the divan.

Dee sat at a small desk, took up a leather-bound
ledger, and started scratching notes. 

Lad stood like a statue, surveying them with eyes
like chips of mica.  “I want to know how things have been progressing in both
business and the investigation.  I’ve read your reports, but I want to hear it
from you.  Jingles, you first.”

With a quick jingle of his bracelet, the Master
Enforcer began.  “Things have quieted down since our little discipline
problem.  The message you sent has been understood and accepted.  The City
Guard is still crying and moaning about us cutting off their bribes, but we’re
telling them to piss off.  As long as we keep the really illegal stuff out of
sight, we’ll be fine.  There’s some squabbling on the fringes of the Docks District—a
couple of The Sprawls gangs trying to horn in on our territory.”  He shrugged
as if the young thugs were of no consequence.  “We’re telling them to bugger
off as politely as possible.”

“Have you considered trying to recruit them?  Having
eyes in The Sprawls might help us find Wiggen’s killer.”

“Yes, Master, but they’re an independent lot.” 
Jingles glanced to Sereth and jerked his left hand in a practiced flip. 
Jingle
jingle
.  They all knew the Master Blade’s origin, and that he didn’t like
to be reminded of his youth.  “In fact, more than one has told
us
to
bugger off.  It probably wouldn’t be worth the trouble.  Our operations in the
South Docks District are going well.  As to the investigation, I’ve got every
cutthroat and loan shark south of the market districts chasing rumors.  So far,
nothing.”

“Keep working on the gangs.  Tell whoever will
listen that we’ll pay for information about anyone who had contact with the
former masters, or anything concerning me or my family.  And keep chasing
rumors.”  Lad’s eyes flicked to Jingles’ left.  “Enola?”

“Business is virtually unchanged, Master.”  Her
voice barely reached the corners of the room, and her eyes remained fixed on
her lap.  “The poison from the dart is nothing special.  White scorpion venom. 
You can get it in any one of a dozen shops, including mine.  The dart itself is
quite a piece of work: spring loaded.  It delivers a huge dose of the venom.”

“Then whoever used it must have purchased a lot of
the venom.  Find out who bought large quantities of that poison.”  He looked to
the Master Inquisitor next.  “Bemrin?”

“Business is booming, Master.”  He grinned broadly,
one bejeweled hand sweeping in a foppish gesture worthy of the duke’s court. 
“I’ve got my girls and boys busy in every parlor, bedroom, backroom, and alley
both north and south of the river.  Gossip and gold are flowing like wine.  You
have my report on the financial aspects, of course.  As far as rumors go,
everyone seems to think the disreputable elements of Twailin killed each other off
in one big, bloody battle, and everyone’s safe now.”

“Are any of those rumors helping our investigation?”

“Not directly, Master, but there is plenty of
chatter.”

“Stop chasing gold and start chasing rumors.  You’re
supposed to be an
Inquisitor
.  Start asking questions!”