Weapon of Blood (7 page)

“Hi.”  Wiggen’s voice soothed him like a
sweet balm, the mere sight of her an elixir that washed away his troubles.

“Hi.”  He ran the back of his fingers
down her cheek, then reached down to brush a lock of hair from Lissa’s brow. 
The babe, just less than a year old, barely stirred, so focused was she upon
her late-night meal.  His rumbling stomach reminded him of his own hunger, and
he sat to eat.

“Busy night?”

“Yes.”  Lad held no secrets from Wiggen. 
“Another attack on Mya—unsuccessful, of course.”

“Mmmm.  Did you…”

“No,” he answered, hearing the worry in
her tone and knowing exactly what she was asking.  “I didn’t kill anyone, but
Mya did.  Two of them jumped her, and she did it before I could stop her.”  He
shook his head in frustration.

“It’s not your fault, Lad.  You can’t
control her.”

Lissa stopped suckling and started
squirming, flailing her tiny hands through the air.  Wiggen expertly shifted
the baby up to her shoulder and began to pat her back, but she looked up at Lad
with concerned eyes.  “She scares me.  I wish you would just quit and come work
for father.”

“Mya is a problem, but I gave her my
word.  Besides, you didn’t marry the poor stableboy that Forbish took in, but
the dedicated assistant to a successful businesswoman.”  Maintaining that false
identity helped keep him safe from the Royal Guard.  Though he doubted they
still actively hunted him, they would never forget the lives he’d taken while
under the Grandfather’s control.

A resounding burp from Lissa drew his
attention from his troubling thoughts, and a smile from his lips.

“Somebody’s full.”

“And ready for bed.”  Wiggen stood, then
bent to give him another kiss.  “Come in soon, Lad.”

“I will.”  Watching her vanish down the
hall to their rooms, he could hear her murmuring softly as she put the babe to
her crib.  Their own bed creaked as Wiggen laid herself to rest.

Lad resumed his dinner, leaning into the
warmth of the hearth and listening to the ebb and flow of the world around
him.  The rain on the roof, the creaks and groans of the inn’s timbers, the snores
of sleeping guests, the stomp of a hoof from the barn across the courtyard.  He
loved this place, these people, the comfortable feeling of home.  Only here did
his worries melt away.  Here he could be the man—father, lover, husband,
friend—that he longed to be.  Here he could be something other than a weapon. 
He knew that the sanctuary was temporary, that in the morning he would have to
leave this safe haven and become the weapon once again.

But that’s tomorrow.

His plate clean and his tankard empty,
Lad took the dishes to the kitchen and put them in the wash barrel, then went
to the room he shared with his family.  A bare glow seeped from the lamp, but
it was more than enough light for him to see.  He bent over the crib where
Lissa slept, and stroked a finger lightly over her pudgy pink cheek.  He vowed
silently to keep her from all harm, to give her the love and life that he had
never known as a child.

Wiggen lay in their bed, the blankets
tracing the smooth curve of her hip, her hair loose on the pillow.  By her
breathing, he knew she wasn’t asleep yet, so he doffed the robe and slipped in
beside her, pulling her close.  She edged back into his embrace and sighed in
sleepy contentment.  Lad breathed in the scent of her hair, felt her heartbeat
against his chest.

Wiggen…

With fingertips as light as feathers, he
caressed her shoulder, tenderly kissing the back of her neck.

“Mmmm…that’s nice, but I’m too tired
tonight, Lad.”  She sighed and pulled away, just a tiny bit, but enough to get
her point across.  “Can’t we just sleep?”

“Of course.”  After one more kiss, he
ceased his amorous attentions and rolled onto his back.  Since the baby, her
interest in lovemaking had waned.  He understood that, between her work at the
inn and tending to Lissa, she didn’t get much rest, and she had assured him
that it was only temporary.  Lad was content to wait.  He missed their
love-making, but knew there was more to love than sex.  Closing his eyes, he
meditated to calm his mind and aid his descent into sleep.  It didn’t work as
well as making love to Wiggen, but it did work, and soon his thoughts settled
into peace, on the verge of oblivion.

Just before sleep overtook him, a memory
surfaced, his words to Mya earlier in the evening:
Don’t you ever look at
men and wonder…

Why did I say that?  Why would I care
if Mya wonders about that?

Chapter
V

D
amnedest thing
I ever seen, Captain.”  Sergeant Tamir stared down at the corpse with a look of
stern puzzlement.  “Can’t figure out how he done it.”

Captain Norwood joined his sergeant
beside the thickly upholstered armchair and squinted down at the dead man.  The
corpse sat upright, a look of mild startlement on its face.  A multi-hued ray
of light shone upon the dead face, painting the pale features with bizarre
rainbow colors.  Norwood glanced up at the window in irritation, thinking to
order Tamir to pull the shade, but there was no shade to pull.  The mosaic of
crystals set in the window’s panes showered the room with wondrous colors, but
Norwood was in no mood to enjoy the beauty.  The window probably cost more than
the captain earned in a month, and Norwood had been roused out of his home
before he’d even eaten breakfast, all so he could come look at a dead rich man.

The rest of the room reflected the victim’s
affluent taste just as brilliantly as the window.  The dark oak desk and its
matching end tables and bookshelves, cunningly carved with abstract shapes and
patterns, set with handles, latches and bookends of gleaming gold, ivory,
silver and jade, were all obviously worth a fortune.  In one corner stood a
full-length oval mirror framed in silver, the gleaming metal decorated with
spidery tracings that gave Norwood a headache when he tried to focus on them. 
The entire townhouse bespoke wealth.  Wealth and magic.

The owner, however, would not be enjoying
his wealth any longer.

The corpse’s hands still gripped the arms
of the chair, his eyes wide and fixed upon a spot straight across the low table
at the matching chair, as if he’d been carrying on a conversation with someone
seated there when he suddenly died.  His legs were crossed, and a snifter of
brandy sat on an end table at his elbow.  In fact, the only clues that he was
not still alive and paying close attention to that conversation were a slight
fecal odor and a bloody stain on the collar of his expensive silk robe.

“It’s a puzzle all right.”

Norwood scanned the opulently appointed
study for any clues to that puzzle, but his practiced eye found nothing
obviously out of place.  In fact, the room was immaculately tidy.  According to
Sergeant Tamir, the entire townhouse mirrored that condition, with nothing to
indicate the master of the house sat dead in his study.  Kneeling, the captain
lifted the embroidered hem of the corpse’s robe and peered beneath.  The fecal
odor wafted out stronger, and a broad stain marred the back of his nightshirt
behind his crossed legs.

 “Well, he died right here.  Shat himself
right in this chair.”  Norwood stood and glared down at the corpse again. 
“What did you say his name was?”

“Vonlith, sir.”  Tamir consulted his
evidence log.  “Housekeeper found him up here when he didn’t come down for his
breakfast.  She went completely hysterical.  Ran right out into the street
screaming ‘Murder’ at the top of her lungs.”

“Wonderful.  Rumors will be flying all
over Hightown by mid-morning.”

“No doubt, sir.  Anyway, she came in
early this morning and made everything up just like she always did.  She said
he was a stickler for details, always wanted things just so.  Part of bein’ a
wizard, I guess.”

“Hmph.  I guess wizarding pays well. 
This place is nicer than many of the nobles’ homes I’ve been in.”  As Captain
of the Royal Guard, Norwood had considerable experience with nobility.  He was
less familiar with the habits of wizards, even though the Wizards Guild and
many of its members resided in his jurisdiction, north of the river.  To his
mind, practitioners of magic tended to be quirky, arrogant, and more than a
little annoying.  “What other servants did he have?”

“Only a stablehand.”  Tamir flipped a
page in his book.  “But he just takes care of the outside of the house. 
Doesn’t even have a key.”

“Vonlith didn’t employ any guards? 
Wealth like this attracts thieves like honey draws flies.”

“None, sir, but I don’t know many thieves
foolish enough to rob a wizard’s home.  They’re generally jealous of their
privacy, and tend to have nasty magical doodahs to keep out the riffraff.”

“Good point.”  He peered around the room
again, wondering how much of what he saw was magical.  The mirror, certainly. 
Hells, the carpet under his boots could be magical for all Norwood knew.  “We
better wait for Master Woefler to arrive before we poke into anything.”

“Woefler’s coming?”  Tamir made a sour
face.  “That skinny git makes my teeth ache, sir.”

“He might be a skinny git, but I’d rather
have
him
burned to ashes by a wizard’s trap than any of my guardsmen. 
Even you, Sergeant.”

“Thanks, sir.”

“We can, however, have a casual look
around.”

“Already done that, sir.”

“Good.  No windows or doors were broken
or forced?”

“None that we’ve seen so far.”  Tamir
gave a stiff shrug.  “A few doors are locked, and I thought it best if we not
go kicking any in.”

Norwood bent closer to the corpse again,
and placed his palm on the forehead.  The flesh was cool; some hours had passed
since death.  He lifted one hand from the armrest, having to pull the rigid
fingers away from the leather.  The arm moved with some resistance.  The flesh
was stiff, but not as unyielding as it would eventually become. The eyes were hazed
and dry, but clear of blood.  He opened the mouth with gentle pressure on the
tip of the wizard’s bearded chin, wary of what might issue forth.  He’d seen
some strange deaths in his time, and sometimes corpses didn’t stay dead.  There
was no blood, and the man’s tongue was not discolored or bloated.

“Rigor hasn’t set in all the way yet. 
Maybe eight hours.  No sign of blunt trauma to the skull.”  He looked at the
back of the chair.  “And no sign that something pierced him through the back of
the chair, either.”

Tamir’s pencil scratched along the page
of his log.  “Got it.”

“Also, note that there’s no splash or
spatter marks around the victim’s head.  His hair’s mussed up, and he’s wearing
night clothes, like he might have gone to bed and then woken up to come down
here.”  Norwood felt along the sides of the corpse’s skull, but found nothing
amiss.  Finally, he gripped the man’s hair and pulled his head forward.  A wash
of crimson painted the back of the dead wizard’s neck.  It had soaked his
collar and wicked around both sides, but most of the blood had gone right down
the back of his nightshirt.

“Not a lot of blood.”  He gingerly probed
the back of the dead man’s head with his fingers, ignoring the cool, congealed
mess.  “No sign of a busted skull but…”  His fingertip found a small slit at
the base of the skull.  “Hmm.  Yes.  A stiletto or poniard, I think.”

“Someone
pithed
him?  Why go to
that trouble?”

Norwood shrugged.  A blade to the back of
the skull was a tricky way to kill someone.  The point of entry was small
enough to require a narrow blade or pick.  Without perfect precision, the
strike would hit bone.  Also, few people would sit still long enough to allow a
killer such precision.  It would be much easier and surer to cut the throat.

“I have no idea.”  Norwood tipped the
wizard’s head back against the chair and wiped his hand on his handkerchief. 
Too late, he realized that it was brand new, an impromptu gift from his wife. 
He’d catch hell from her for using it in such a manner.  Maybe he’d just throw
it away and claim he lost it.  “It’s a difficult kill, but it’s tidy.”

 “So, the assassin piths him right here
in this chair, then slips the dagger out and leans him back, just so he won’t
make a mess?”  Tamir scratched notes in his log.

“Assassin?”  Norwood gave his sergeant a
curious look.  “Why call him that?”

“Come on, sir.  This has got ‘professional
hit’ written all over it.”  He gestured around the room with the end of his
pencil.  “No sign of forced entry.  No blood spatter or signs that the killer
got all bloody doing the deed.  All kinds of expensive knickknacks lying
around, so he wasn’t here to steal stuff.  No mess, no fuss.  He didn’t even
spill the man’s brandy!”  He gave a short, humorless laugh.  “Someone’s really
proud of their skills here.”

“Hmph.”  Norwood didn’t like the idea of
assassins or professional killings, preferring straight-forward crimes of
passion, robbery, or revenge.  Those were easier to solve.  But Tamir was
right; this looked far too neat to be any of those.  “Well, we know how, so
let’s try to figure out who and why, shall we?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We can assume he died right here.  That
means whoever did it stood beside or behind the chair when he put a blade in
the wizard’s skull.”  Norwood circled the chair, but the expensive western rugs
gave no indication of where the killer might have stood while performing the
deed.  “The man was sipping a brandy, and he didn’t have a book or anything, so
maybe he was having a chat with the killer.”

“So, it could have been someone he knew. 
Someone he’d let into his house for a late-night drink and conversation.” 
Tamir picked up the snifter and passed it under his nose.  “Doesn’t smell bad,
but if the killer slipped him something, it would have made the pithing a lot
easier.”

“That’s true.”  Norwood hadn’t thought
about poison.  Tamir had a good mind for things like this.  “Make sure we have
a sample of that.  Maybe we can figure out if it was doped.  And check the
other snifters.  Our killer may have used one.”

“Sure, sir.”  Tamir put the snifter back
down and scratched a note in his book. “Seems like a lot of trouble when
cutting his throat or hacking his head off with a sword would have been
easier.”

“But messier and not as elegant.” 
Norwood pursed his lips.  He couldn’t remember a single killing so bereft of
evidence.

“Elegant?”  Tamir scratched something in
his log, then looked up at his captain.  “You think this was
elegant
?”

“Well, maybe that’s the wrong word, but I
think you were right about one thing.  Whoever did this was very proud of their
skills.  They might have wanted to avoid making a mess to keep from tracking
blood all over the place, but a dagger in the eye or the heart would have been
easier than one in the back of the head, and just as sure.  It’s like someone’s
showing off here.”

“Or sending a message?”

Messages…daggers…assassinations…

Norwood shuddered, remembering where he’d
seen those three things together before; the worst string of murders Twailin
had ever seen. 
Those killings were nothing like this.  The method is the
message here.  More subtle than a note around the hilt of a dagger thrust
through someone’s eye while they slept.

“I don’t know about a message, but
whoever did this did it
like
this for a reason.  Maybe as a signature or
personal trademark.  Whatever it is, I don’t like it.  Once you’re finished
here, search the archives for similar methods and circumstances.”

“Yes, Captain.”  Tamir scratched more
notes.  “Professional, no doubt, but I’ve never heard of a wizard earning a
visit from a pro.  Can’t even remember the last time a wizard got murdered. 
They’re dangerous targets, even for a pro.  This one’s a puzzle, all right.”