Weapon of Fear (13 page)

Jolee
escorted her through the main work room.  Workers stirred huge bubbling vats of
beeswax, tallow, and whale oil, dipped lengths of cotton twine into the molten
wax, and hung the drying candles by their wicks on multi-tiered racks.  Men and
women alike were stripped down to near indecency against the stifling heat, but
Mya’s enchanted wrappings kept her cool.

At
the top of a long stair in the back of the building, Jolee knocked on a door
with surprising gentleness.  The door opened, and an Enforcer equal to Jolee in
height and girth met them with a narrow-eyed stare.

“What?”

“Borlic
sent her to see Clemson.”  Jolee hooked a thick thumb at Mya.

The
new Enforcer frowned, looked Mya over, and nodded, beckoning them inside.

This
is too easy
, Mya
considered.  She hoped she wasn’t being set up.  She listened, but detected no
scuffling or sounds of weapons being drawn.

A
far cry from Borlic’s office, this room was positively palatial.  The red-leather
upholstery, wood-paneled walls, gleaming brass lanterns and fixtures, and a rug
woven in the pattern of a compass rose all gave the place a nautical motif. 
The west wall sported large windows of leaded glass that commanded an
impressive view of the shipyard below the bluff, the bay, and the sea beyond. 
The afternoon sun haloed a tall, slim woman looking out the window, a single
long braid of blonde hair hanging down her back to well below her waist.

“Who
is it?” The woman turned, and Mya stifled her surprise.  She was truly
beautiful, with high cheekbones and exotic almond-shaped eyes, and upturned
ears attesting to some degree of elven blood.  Her blousy white shirt, in which
she could have hidden a half-dozen daggers, was tucked into a low-slung pair of
snug black pants that could have hidden none.  Her soft leather boots with
turned-down cuffs definitely hid steel.  She was, to Mya’s mind, the very image
of a pirate captain of tall tales.

“Borlic
sent her to see you, Master Clemson.”  Jolee stepped aside, indicating Mya with
a wave of one massive hand.  “He called her
Mya
.”

One
of Clemson’s incongruously dark eyebrows twitched.  “Very well.”  Waving her
Enforcers out of the room, Clemson stepped closer, eyes the color of honey
raking Mya from head to toe.  “Master Hunter Mya…  You and your guildmaster
beat up several of my people a few nights ago.  I’m surprised that you’d show
your face here again.”

“I
was
Master Hunter Mya.  Now it’s Grandmaster Mya.”  Mya wiggled her ring finger.

“So
I had heard.”  Clemson leaned on the corner of her broad desk.  “A little young
to be Grandmaster, aren’t you?”

Mya
smiled thinly.  “I didn’t realize that there was an age requirement.”  She
looked Clemson up and down again.  “A little skinny to be a Master Enforcer,
aren’t you?”

Clemson’s
flawless lips twitched, her long fingers brushing nonexistent wrinkles from her
trousers. “I prefer the term ‘slim’.  You’ll forgive me, I’m sure, if I test
your claim.”

“Feel
free.”

The
woman drew a throwing dagger from her blousy sleeve and raised it.  Her hand
hung in the air, trembling with the effort to throw the blade into Mya’s eye. 
Finally she relented and tucked the dagger away.  “Well, it seems that is the
Grandmaster’s ring after all.”

“I’m
not likely to lie about it.”  Mya considered how to phrase her first question. 
“Borlic said he’d been told I wasn’t his boss.  What have you been told?”

“Lady
T sent word that the Grandmaster had been killed.  She failed to mention that
his successor had been selected.”  Turning to a broad sideboard, the Master
Enforcer pulled a stopper from a crystal decanter. “Thirsty?”

“Yes,
thank you.”

Clemson
poured into two tumblers and offered one to Mya.

“I
wasn’t selected, but I’m
taking
his position.”  Mya accepted it and
inhaled the fragrant aroma of spiced rum.  She sipped, and the liquor caressed
her throat like velvet fire, stoking her resolve.  “I need to ask you a few
questions.”

“Ask
all you wish, but you must understand my position.”  Clemson downed her drink
in one long swallow and set her tumbler down on her desk.  “The guild has a
strict hierarchy, and I can’t accept you as my Grandmaster until my guildmaster
tells me you are.”

“And
you must understand my position.”  Mya finished her rum and tossed the tumbler
to the Master Enforcer, who snatched it deftly out of the air.  “I’ll get my
answers, or I’ll have a new Master Enforcer by tomorrow morning.”

The
Enforcer stared at her for a time, her face expressionless.  Mya simply stared
back.  No one could hurt her here.  She held all the cards in this game, and
Clemson knew it.  Finally, the Enforcer put Mya’s glass beside hers and waved
at one of the velvet-upholstered chairs.

“Have
a seat and ask your questions.”  She took a seat behind the desk.

“First,
I’d like to know what orders you’ve received recently from Lady T.”  She sat
and crossed her legs, trying to appear casual and confident, though she didn’t
feel either.

“You’re
asking me to betray my master.”

“No,
I’m asking you to tell me if my orders to your master have been passed on to
you.  If they haven’t, I need to make my orders clearer.”

Clemson
considered this for a while, then shrugged and answered.  “I’ve been told to
expand our operations to north of the river once the unrest settles down.”

That’s
encouraging
. 
“What kind of operations?”

“Everything. 
Protection and extortion rackets, prostitution...everything.”

“What
about new strategies?  Anything different?”

Clemson
wrinkled her brow.  “No.  New…like what?”

Mya’s
brow furrowed in confusion.  Was Lady T following her instructions or not? 
I
need more information
.  “Never mind.  Give me the names and addresses of
the other masters.  I’ll be paying them visits, too.”

“Nice
to know I’m not special.”  Clemson’s lip curled, but she broke away from Mya’s
stare.  “The nearest is Master Blade Noncey.  His office is here in the
Dreggars Quarter, in the back of a gambling house in the basement of the Yellow
Briar pub on Tannery Row.  Next is ‘Twist’ Umberlin, the Master Hunter…”

Mya
committed the names and addresses to memory and bid the Master Enforcer good
day.  Curious stares followed her through the chandlery on her way out, but no
one tailed her.  She checked her map and headed to meet Master Noncey.  She
hoped interviewing the masters would shed some more light on what was going on
in the guild, but wouldn’t bet her life on it.

Hoseph
scuffed along the quiet street, the throb of a swelling blister on his heel
plaguing his concentration.  He wasn’t familiar enough with this particular
Heights neighborhood to travel using his talisman, and though high priests
might ride in carriages, acolytes walked.  He cursed the necessity for this
charade.  The disastrous trip to Twailin hadn’t improved his mood, but he would
deal with those traitors later.  He had bigger fish to fry.

He
approached an imposing house—great stone blocks girded by a high wrought-iron
fence—that seemed more like a fortress than a private residence.  Of course, when
you were the official responsible for the punishment and imprisonment of a
significant portion of the populace, safeguards were essential.  Meting out the
emperor’s justice had not endeared Chief Magistrate Graving to the common
folk. 

Hoseph
recited his calming mantra as he approached the constables manning the gate. 
He knew the constabulary was searching for him, but doubted he would be
recognized.  The stern-faced, richly dressed high priest whose likeness adorned
wanted posters throughout the city bore little likeness to the lowly, contrite
acolyte who stood before them.  He drew back the cowl of his robe and painted
on a bright, oblivious smile.

“Good
constables, I hope the day finds you well.  I am Brother Tomari, acolyte of our
most beneficent goddess Demia, Keeper of The Slain.”  He bowed deeply. “I beg
an audience with Chief Magistrate Graving in a matter of vital importance to my
order.”

The
two constables shared a glance, and Hoseph tried to maintain a pleasant
expression.  Did they recognize him, or did they think he was bluffing his way
in to ask for a donation?

“And
what might this matter be?” the older constable asked, his tone as hard as the iron
cap that crowned his head.

“I
was charged with delivering a message to Chief Magistrate Graving personally. 
All I can tell you that it has to do with a wayward member of our order—High
Priest Hoseph.”

“If
this is information about the investigation, why not take it to the Chief
Constable?”

Hoseph
shrugged.  “I’m simply following orders, sir.  I was sent here.  I would hate
to have to report that I was rejected before delivering the message…”

“Very
well.”  The constable opened the gate.  “Take the brother in, Maris.”

“Yes,
sir.”  Maris ushered Hoseph through the gate to the door, past two more
constables stationed there, and rapped the brass clapper three times.  Yet
another constable answered the door.  “Visitor for the magistrate.  Brother
Tomari from Demia’s temple with news about the traitor priest.”

Traitor
?  Incongruously, it bothered
Hoseph more to be named a traitor than a murderer.  He hid his displeasure and
stepped into the magistrate’s lavish home.  Hoseph’s feet sank deep into the
plush rug, and he regarded the luxurious décor.  The chief magistrate had done
well for himself.  If only half of what Hoseph had heard about the tension
between Arbuckle and Graving was true, the man must certainly fear losing the
position that had bestowed upon him such an abundance of power and riches. 
That boded well for their meeting.

“This
way.”  A butler motioned for Hoseph to follow, leading him down a long corridor
toward the back of the house.

The
butler’s rap on the thick oaken door at the end of the hall heralded an
impatient call from within.  “Yes!  What now?”

The
butler opened the door and bowed low.  “Brother Tomari, acolyte of Demia, to
see you, Chief Magistrate.  He bears news about the traitor priest.”

“What?” 
The magistrate looked up from a desk littered with papers.

Hoseph
tensed as Graving’s eyes fixed upon him, but he saw no recognition.  Though
both had attended palace functions, they’d never been formally introduced.

Graving
looked annoyed.  “Why bring it to me?  If you know where he is, tell the chief
constable to have him arrested.”

“Chief
Magistrate, I was instructed to relate this information to your ear only.” 
Hoseph cast a sidelong glance at the butler.

“Oh,
very well.  Come in.  Bentley, get out.”

“Yes,
Chief Magistrate.”  The butler bowed and left.

Two
leather-upholstered chairs fronted the magistrate’s desk, but Graving made no
offer.  Instead, he jammed his pen in his inkwell and leaned back in his chair,
ink-stained fingers nesting upon his formidable belly.  “Well, what’s so important
that it couldn’t wait until I was in my office tomorrow?”

Hoseph
took a steadying breath before speaking.  He would have to play this carefully
until he was sure of Graving’s allegiance. “There are those, Chief Magistrate,
who are concerned about the direction in which Crown Prince Arbuckle is taking
this empire.”

“Direction! 
There
is
no direction!  It’s utter chaos!  He’ll be serving the bloody
commoners our heads on silver platters if he keeps it up!”  Graving narrowed
his eyes.  “What does this have to do with the traitor priest?”

Hoseph
struggled not to smile.  Now that he knew Graving and he were of the same mind,
he made his opening move.  “First, let me assure you that High Priest Hoseph is
no traitor to the empire.  He served our emperor dutifully, though his tasks
were necessarily not as publically acclaimed as your own.  He had nothing to do
with the emperor’s death, but was privy to many of Tynean Tsing’s confidences. 
He was forced to flee rather than be compelled to divulge the emperor’s secrets.”

“How
do you know this?  If—”  Graving’s piggish eyes widened.  “Good gods, it’s
you!”  His hand reached behind the desk.

“Please,
Chief Magistrate, don’t do anything rash!  If you betray my trust, I’ll simply
vanish.  I’m sure you’ve heard the story of how I escaped the dungeons, so you
know I can do it.”  Hoseph fingered the tiny silver skull, ready to flee, but
praying to Demia that he wouldn’t have to.  “Do you want rumors to spread that
you met with a traitor?  And do you truly want Arbuckle to be your next
emperor?”

“Of
course not!  The man’s a disaster!”  The magistrate pulled a small silver flask
from one of the desk drawers.  Unscrewing the cap, he tilted it into his mouth
with a quivering hand.  “Your question implies that Arbuckle’s ascension to the
throne isn’t assured.”