Weapon of Blood (14 page)

“Yes, she’s adorable, except when she’s
fussing and insists that I carry her around on my hip all day while we’re
dreadfully busy with a room full of guests, soup to stir, and biscuits still to
be made for this evening.”  She sharpened her words with annoyance.  She didn’t
want to anger him so much that he arrested her again, but she wasn’t going to
be intimidated.

His smile faded a trifle.  “Yes, Forbish
said you were busy, so I’ll get right to the point.  There’s been a murder
north of the river, a wizard named Vonlith.”

He paused as if expecting some reaction
or comment from her.  She raised an eyebrow, wondering what this had to do with
her.  “I don’t generally kill wizards, Captain, but I might make an exception if
they interrupt me in the middle of work and taking care of a fussy baby.”

He smiled tightly.  “I wasn’t suggesting
that you had killed him, but I thought you might know the name.”

“No, Captain.  I’ve never heard the name
before.”

Norwood pulled a small book from the
inside pocket of his jacket and flipped through the pages.  “I’m asking you
because we have evidence linking Vonlith to Saliez.  That is a name I’m sure
you remember.”

Wiggen nodded and hitched Lissa farther
up onto her hip.  “Yes, I remember, Captain.  But he’s dead.  Why should you
care if this Vonlish had anything to do with him?”

“It’s Vonlith, not Vonlish,” he said with
another tight-lipped smile.  “A relationship with Saliez would suggest that he
was working for the Assassins Guild, which might give us a hint why he was
murdered.  At the time, we thought that Saliez might have contracted a wizard
to put the binding magic back on the boy you told us about”—he looked at his
notebook—“Lad.  Unfortunately, the wizard was gone when we raided Saliz’s
estate.  We just found out that the wagon in Saliez’s courtyard belonged to
Master Vonlith.”

Wiggen looked the captain straight in the
eye, summoning the strength to steady her shaking knees at the mention of Lad. 
He had never told her the name of the wizard who had inked the neat row of
runes down his chest.  “So you already know that this Vonlith was involved with
Saliez.  Why ask me about it?”

“To determine if you knew why Saliez
contracted the wizard.”

“You just told me you already know that,
too, Captain.  I never heard the name Vonlith until you asked me.  Frankly, if
he worked for the Assassins Guild, it’s no wonder he was killed.”

“But our assumption came from what you
told me about Lad.”  He flipped through pages in his notebook.  “That a wizard
put magic on him to make him kill those nobles.”

“Yes, I did tell you that, Captain, but
the only wizard Lad ever mentioned to me was the one who gave him the magic
when he was a boy, and that wizard was apparently killed before Lad even
arrived in Twailin.”

“Yes, that is in my notes here.”

“Then it should
also
be in your
notes that I told you Lad was
dead
, and that I didn’t mention a wizard
named Vonlith.”  Wiggen took a deep breath, fighting to stay calm.  “I’m sorry
Captain, but I really can’t help you.  Forgive me if I’m upset.  I’ve tried
very hard to forget what happened back then, and you’ve just dredged it all up
again.”

“Now, Wiggen.  Don’t be like that.” 
Forbish put a steadying hand on her shoulder.  “He’s just trying to solve a
murder.  He’s not accusing you of anything.”

“I’m sorry.”  Norwood at least had the
decency to look chagrined as he tucked his notebook into a pocket.  “Your
father’s right, I’m not accusing anyone here of anything.  If you know nothing
of Vonlith, I won’t waste any more of your time.  Thank you for your
hospitality.”  He gulped a final swallow of his blackbrew, and plucked the last
cookie from the plate as he reached into a pocket and pulled out a silver
crown.

Forbish raised a hand to forestall the
payment.  “There’s no need, Captain.”

Norwood flipped the coin onto the tray
anyway.  “For your trouble, then.”

Wiggen felt like screaming by the time
her father ushered the captain out of the room.  She dropped into the chair as
her knees gave out, and hugged Lissa to her breast.  They had thought
themselves safe from the Royal Guard.  If Norwood ever realized that Lad was
alive, he wouldn’t rest until they hanged him for the deaths of all those
nobles.  Fear for him, of losing him again, felt like a crushing weight on her chest. 
Closing her eyes, she forced herself to take deep breaths, to still her mind as
Lad had taught her.  Eventually, her heart slowed and her muddled thoughts
cleared.

Once she was sure that her legs would
support her, she stood, hitched her daughter up on her hip, and picked up the
blackbrew tray with a practiced motion.  “Well, we’ve certainly got something
to tell your daddy tonight, don’t we, Lissa?”

Lissa looked up at her mother with wide
uncomprehending eyes, her father’s eyes, and smiled.  Wiggen kissed her cheek,
wishing she could share the babe’s blissful ignorance.

Hensen propped his feet upon the hearth,
upon the very same stones where Captain Norwood’s boots had rested only hours
before.  The master thief had been more than startled when his long-standing
nemesis walked into the
Tap and Kettle
’s common room, but Puc, the God
of luck, must have been smiling on him.  The captain had barely spared him a
glance before talking with Forbish, and then withdrew into a back room with the
innkeeper and his scar-faced daughter.  Hensen had been unable to overhear
their conversation, but that was all right; his spies in the Royal Guard would
let him know what the good captain was currently investigating.  But that would
come later.

Relaxing into the cushions, perversely
pleased to be sitting where Norwood sat, Hensen basked in the warmth of the
dying bed of coals.  It felt good to be out of his house for a change, away
from the damned account books, schedules, work assignments and contracts that
took up all of his time and sapped his zeal for life.  It had been years since
he’d done any honest—dishonest, really—field work.  Unable to resist the
opportunity to stretch his legs and shake the dust off of his long-disused
skills, he had slipped into all his old habits as easily as slipping into a
pair of comfortable old shoes.  He and Kiesha had checked into the inn that
morning, a wealthy merchant in town for a few days with his young wife.  Thanks
to his subtle disguise, neither Forbish nor Norwood had shown a hint of
recognition.

Now he sat alone in the common room—all
the guests, and even the staff, had long since retired for the night—an old
book of poems in his lap illuminated by the lamp beside his chair.  Next to the
lamp sat a glass of red wine, but he had not sipped it in hours.  In fact, his
whole posture was feigned; he wasn’t reading, drinking, sleeping, or lost in
thought.

Hensen was waiting for someone.

Just past midnight, when his spirits
began to flag with the notion that his hunch might have been wrong, the kitchen
door opened.  Hensen’s eyes flicked up even as he maintained his scholarly
pose, his head bent over his book as if rapt in the verse.

A young man entered the common room
wrapped in a robe.  He strode across the floor, his movements as fluid as water
on a sheet of glass, his steps utterly silent.  If not for the creak of the
door opening, Hensen might have missed his passage entirely.

It was him.  The weapon.

A thrill of fear raced up Hensen’s spine,
an occurrence so unusual that it nearly broke his feigned composure.  All his
life, the thief had trod carefully around the Assassins Guild, reluctant to
stir the ire of its cruel master.  Yet this young man, or so the rumor ran
according to Sereth, had managed to kill Saliez.  The master thief would need
all of his skills if he wanted to leave this chair alive.

Hensen flipped a page of his book and
reached out to pick up his glass of wine, pretending not to notice the weapon’s
silent appearance.   The wine didn’t ripple in the glass, his false calm
intact.  Draining the small amount of liquid left, he looked up to set the
glass aside, feigning surprise at the sight of his visitor.  Hensen stifled a
start of unease at the faintly luminous eyes, like a cat’s, staring at him.

“Good evening.”  Hensen raised his glass
in toast and smiled. 
Calm, smooth, easy,
he thought.

“Sir.”  The young man nodded politely and
stepped closer, so that the light from Hensen’s lamp illuminated his face.  The
luminosity of his eyes faded.  It must have been a reflection from the lamp.

Not quite the same as the portrait,
but undeniably the same young man.

“Can I get you anything before I retire?”

“How kind of you to offer.”  The thief
raised his glass.  “Another spot of the grape would not go amiss.  My insomnia
is acting up, and wine, I’m afraid, is the only means I have to get to sleep.”

“Of course.”  He vanished into the
kitchen and returned with a chilled carafe of wine.  “Here you are.”

“You’re a godsend, my boy.”  The young
man—
the weapon
, Hensen reminded himself— leaned down to fill his glass,
his motions smooth and sure.  Hensen watched intently, memorizing every curve,
every dimple and scar.  He knew the weapon could kill him in an instant, yet
still the wine in his glass did not ripple.  His nerves tingled with the
exhilaration of the danger.  He felt more alive than he had in years.  Hensen
sipped, trying not to stare at the grace and beauty of the weapon as he placed
the carafe on the table.  “You must be Master Forbish’s son-in-law.”

“Yes.”  The weapon smiled, which was
nearly as disturbing as his uncanny perfection.  “My work keeps me out late,
but it pays too well for me to quit.”

“Difficult for a young father to be away
from his bride and daughter, no doubt.”  Hensen sipped his wine again,
examining the subtle changes from the illustration he’d kept all these years.

“It is hard, but I have little choice.” 
The weapon—
he has a name
, Hensen remembered.  
Lad
—smiled again
and nodded.  “We all do what we must.  Goodnight, sir.”

“Goodnight.”  Hensen watched him go,
relishing that last glimpse of supple grace, and wondering if Lad’s uncanny
eyes had pierced his disguise.  If they had, he could very well be dead by
morning.  He leaned back in the chair and closed his book.  He had put himself
in unwarranted danger here, and for what?  To get a closer look at something
far beyond his ken.  Well, after tonight, he would consider his own safety
above his curiosity. 
I’ve operatives for this kind of thing, for the Gods’
sake! 
He would station them to watch over Lad, fulfilling the terms of the
contract without risking his life again.

I should leave first thing in the
morning, before he can see me again.
 
But then Hensen remembered the look of Lad’s light hazel eyes in the lamplight,
so clear, so beautiful that they took his breath away.  Perhaps leaving too early
would draw attention. 
We’ll leave immediately after breakfast
, he
decided, feeling sure that Lad would make an appearance. 
Kiesha must see
him as well
, he rationalized, sipping his wine and staring into the dying
embers at his feet.

“Such a lovely young man…”

Chapter
X

G
ood morning,
sleepyhead.”  Lad handed Wiggen the cup of steaming blackbrew he had just
poured.  He had heard her shuffling across the common room before she entered
the kitchen, and thought it best to greet her properly.

The sun had not yet risen outside the
kitchen window, so it wasn’t really morning yet, but the glow of the kitchen
lamps seemed dimmer with the lightening sky.  Lad had suggested they let Wiggen
sleep an extra half hour, since he knew she’d been up twice feeding Lissa since
he came home.  Lissa gurgled and reached out for her mother, but Lad murmured
sweet nothings into her ear to calm her down.  Wiggen took the cup and rubbed
her eyes, looking more tired than usual.

 “What’s good about it?”  Wiggen sipped
the strong brew and closed her eyes.  “Ahh, that’s good.  I may just survive.”

“Glad to hear it.”  Lad bounced the
sleepy babe on his hip as he steered Wiggen to a stool.  “Forbish said you had
a visit from Captain Norwood yesterday.”

“Yes.”  She sat down and took another sip
of blackbrew, looking to her father.  “Did you tell him everything?”

“No, I thought you should.”  Forbish
shrugged and continued mixing dough for scones.  “You were the one he wanted to
talk to.”

Lad sat quietly and waited for her to
speak, hiding his impatience.  Forbish’s nervous demeanor had him worried.  He
had been incredibly tight-lipped about the guard captain’s visit, deferring to
Wiggen.  In fact, the Royal Guard showing up at the inn at all had Lad
worried.  He’d have to talk with Mya about keeping up her part of their deal. 
Wiggen seemed less nervous than her father, but she was also still half asleep.

“Norwood was investigating a murder.  It
wasn’t anything to do with us.  Not directly, anyway.  I nearly died when he mentioned
you by name, but—”

“He mentioned
me
?”  Lad clenched
his fist, but she put a calming hand on his arm.

“Only in passing.  He thought the murder
might have had something to do with the Assassins Guild.”

“Well, that’s not a stretch of
imagination.  Most of the murders in Twailin
can
be traced back to the guild
one way or another.  But why mention me, and why would he ask you about it?”

“Norwood thinks the murdered man, some
wizard, had something to do with the Grandfather.”  She shook her head as if it
would help dredge up the details of the conversation from her sleep-deprived
mind.  “He wanted to know if I had ever heard of him, but I hadn’t.”

Cold fingers of worry gripped the back of
Lad’s neck.  He only knew of two wizards who had associated directly with the
Grandfather.  One had been his Master, and he was long dead.  The other…  “What
was the wizard’s name?”

“Vonlith.  Was that who…”  She waved her
hand toward his chest, indicating the runes hidden beneath his shirt.

“Yes.”

Vonlith dead.

Lad’s mind spun.  He touched his chest,
rubbing the cloth of his shirt over the dark tattoos that Vonlith had etched
there, the runes that would have once again enslaved him to the Grandfather. 
His feelings about Vonlith were conflicted, to say the least.  The only reason
the wizard hadn’t completed his task was that Mya had helped Lad kill the
Grandfather.  He seethed a bit, then took a couple of deep breaths to calm
himself, remembering that Vonlith had only been doing his job, the same way
that the assassins who attacked Mya, or the stalkers who tried to follow him
home, were only doing their jobs.  Besides, if not for Vonlith dispelling the
power of the Grandfather’s tattooed runes, Lad would never have been able to
defeat the guildmaster.  His help had not been altruistic by any means—rather
to keep Mya’s dagger out of his throat—but Vonlith
had
cast the spell,
and then provided them a means of escape in his wagon.

“Lad?”  Wiggen squeezed his arm, and he
realized that she and Forbish were staring at him.  “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”  He force a smile he didn’t
feel.  “Yes, he’s the one who gave me my tattoos, under orders from the
Grandfather.  He also saved my life…”

“He saved
your
life?”  Forbish
looked dubious.

Wiggen sat tight-lipped.  Lad had told
her most of what had happened that day, though he had never mentioned Vonlith
by name, and she had kept her promise not to tell anyone, even her father.

Lad cracked a wry smile.  “Only because
Mya threatened to kill him if he didn’t, but that doesn’t matter.”  His mind
skipped ahead to the real issue: who would kill Vonlith and why?  He hadn’t
heard anything of the man in five years, but the wizard was one of two people
who knew he’d killed Saliez.  To murder a highly skilled wizard was a dangerous
and rare undertaking.  Someone must have wanted him dead very badly.  “Did
Norwood say how Vonlith died?”

“No.  He only said it was murder.  He’s
trying to find out who did it, and found out that Vonlith was working for the
Grandfather.  Since I was the one who told him about the Grandfather in the
first place, he thought I might know what Vonlith was doing for him.  I’d never
heard of Vonlith and told him so, but as it turns out he had a pretty good
idea…”  Her voice trailed off, and she twisted a strand of her hair in
agitation.

“Well, I’d like to know who killed
Vonlith, too,” Lad admitted.  He handed Lissa over to Wiggen.  “We better get
to work.  Don’t worry about this.  I’ll look into it.”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with
you.”  Wiggen put her cup down and propped the baby on her hip, giving him an
admonishing look.  “Why should you have to find out who killed him?”

“I’m just interested, that’s all.  I’m
sure it has nothing to do with me, and it’s probably not related to the
Grandfather either.”

“What if someone found out how Saliez
died and is getting revenge?”  He hated to hear the worry in Wiggen’s voice.

“I doubt that’s the case.  It’s been five
years, after all, but I want to make sure, and I know who to ask for help.”

“Mya?”  Wiggen’s eyes had narrowed, her
voice scornful.  She didn’t like Mya, even though she had never met the Master
Hunter.  She understood that Lad had given his word to protect the woman, but
she resented the danger it put him in.

“She was the only other person there when
the Grandfather died.”  He gave her an easy smile, sure of his reasoning.  “If
someone’s out for revenge, Mya will find out who it is.” 
Not because she
wants to help me, but because it’s in her best interest
, he thought,
careful not to voice this opinion aloud.

“And she’s also supposed to keep the
Royal Guard away from us.  Why don’t you remind her about that?”

“I will.  She has people who can get
information from the Royal Guard, and she’s spread a few rumors over the years
to reinforce the notion that I’m dead, but something like this is probably a
bit beyond her influence.”  Lad recognized the irony in defending Mya against
charges that he, himself, had considered only a short while ago.

“Just be careful, Lad.  I don’t trust
her.”

“I’m always careful, Wiggen.  You know
that.”  He kissed her on the cheek and Lissa on the forehead.  “I’ve got too
much to lose not to be careful.”

Mya ascended the stairs from her
apartment, the cool air of the passage a sharp contrast to the warm hand
clasped in her own.  Unlocking the door at the top, she guided her guest into
her office.  He stumbled at the top step, and she reached back, quick as a
striking snake, to steady him.

“I’m sorry.  I should have told you—”

“No matter, milady.”  He smiled and
squeezed her hand.

His was a nice smile, a very nice smile,
and his hands…  A warm shiver ran up Mya’s spine as she recalled his fingers on
her skin, teasing her with their feather-light touch.  And that had just been
the start.  His patience, kindness, and consummate skill had proven him worthy
of his reputation.

“Here.  There’s a chair for you, two
steps.”  She led him to her chair, lamenting the loss of his touch as he
released her hand, while at the same moment relishing the renewal of her
solitude.  “Wait here.  I’ll fetch your mistress.”

“Thank you.”

His voice touched her ears like
stone-washed silk.  The whispers, pleas, and promises of the night echoed in
her mind, and she shivered again.  Closing the door to her apartments, she
strode to the door to the common room and opened it.  Mika stood there like a
monolith, arms crossed, face impassive.  It was frightfully early, and yet he
there he was.  
Does he never leave that spot?
she wondered.

“Madam Jondeleth should be in the common
room, Mika.  Please fetch her.”

“Yes, Miss Mya.”

The door thudded closed, and Mya walked
back to the young man seated complacently in her chair.  His milky white eyes
stared unseeingly past her, but the pale motes did not detract from his
beauty.  What did were the marks upon the flawless skin of his neck, marks that
matched her teeth perfectly.  She cringed when she considered the other marks
she had left on him in the throes of her passion.  She had nearly injured him
badly before coming to her senses and reining in her enthusiasm, yet not one
complaint or one admonishment had issued from his beautiful lips.

Mya went to him and lifted his collar to
cover the marks, then combed her fingers through his tousled hair, smoothing it
down.  She remembered that hair between her fingers, her cries, his, and pulled
her hand away.  The long sleeve of her robe slipped up her forearm, exposing
her lattice of tattooed runes; she had not yet donned her wrappings.  Memories
of his hands caressing her rune-etched skin flooded through her.  For the first
time she had exposed her secret to someone, and it was to a blind prostitute.

“Thank you.”  Again, that voice…

Gods, what’s wrong with me?

The knock at the door sent her hand
reaching for the dagger normally at her hip.  Banishing the reflex, she
straightened her robe and said, “Come in.”

The door opened and Mika ushered Madam
Jondeleth into the room.  The woman had been quite a beauty in her youth, and
still dressed like a courtesan, even though long past the age where she could
ply that trade.  Now she specialized in the supply side of the business,
providing experts in the arts of physical pleasure to wealthy clients
throughout Twailin, including royalty, clergy, and magistrates.  Needless to
say, she was accustomed to being discreet when it came to her clientele, a
desire that Mya had emphasized.  Mistress Jondeleth had only winked knowingly,
a manner that set Mya’s teeth on edge.