Weapon of Fear (22 page)

A
nagging ache pulsed behind his eyes, and Hoseph swayed, lightheaded. 
Fatigue…I’m
working too hard.
  Recalling the diagrams once again, he assessed his
position. 
Left at the end of the corridor, and Saepse’s quarters should be
on the right.

Finally
coalescing before the thick oaken door embossed with the coat of arms of the
Order of the Sword, Hoseph stumbled and steadied himself against the wall.  His
head throbbed and he felt dizzy. 
What’s wrong with me
?

Hoseph
looked at the silver skull in his hand.  Could Demia’s divine method of travel
be taking a toll?  He’d never experienced any side effects before, but then,
he’d never used it so much before.  Prior to the emperor’s death, he’d rarely
travelled more than once or twice a day.  Lately, he’d been flicking through
the Sphere of Shadow constantly.

Nothing
to be done about it.  Just a few more tonight, then I can rest
.

Hoseph
knelt to peer through the keyhole, but his eye met only darkness.  Cupping his
hands to block the light from the nearby wall sconce, he closed his eyes to let
them to adjust.  Opening one to peer through the aperture, he divined by the
starlight a small, sparse room with a wide bed, a bedside table with an unlit
lamp, and the lump of a sleeping form.

Perfect
.  Ignoring his headache, Hoseph
touched his talisman and flicked through the shadows into the room.

Slow,
steady breathing greeted him.  The high priest slept deeply beneath a white
coverlet embroidered in silver thread with the blazing Sword of Light.

Two
steps took Hoseph close enough to peer down at the sleeping priest’s face. 
Silently invoking Demia’s favor, he closed his eyes and searched his senses. 
Dream
… 
Dream, and show me your soul
… Scenes flashed into his mind, dreams of
training, honor, regimen, duty.  Hoseph delicately inserted his own memories of
the palace dungeon: first the dead blademasters, their grievous wounds and
blank, staring eyes; then their dead charge, Tynean Tsing, with his expression
of stark terror, his own dagger thrust into his throat.  Finally, he wove a
careful suggestion.

You
have failed!  You have broken your oath to the emperor and to Koss Godslayer
.
 You have failed…and failure
is the ultimate sin
. 
Royal blood wets your hands
. 
You have
failed…and there is only one atonement for failure
…

“T
hank you, Lord MalEnthal.  Your aid
in this is invaluable.”

“It’s
the least I could do, Milord Prince.”  The aged paladin sat propped up in bed. 
He nodded toward his nurse, a surly looking man in a tabard emblazoned with the
crossed scrolls of Oris the Overseer, god of knowledge and learning.  “Jamis
here provides me with reading material, but there’s no real work for a paladin
with no legs, is there?”  The man smiled ruefully, his large, scarred hands
patting the flat blanket below his torso. 

“You
can thank Tennison here for suggesting that I solicit your assistance.”  Don’t
hesitate to call on me if a particular case doesn’t fit in to the parameters
we’ve established.”

“Yes,
milord.  No incarceration for non-violent protests, and short prison sentences
without corporal punishment for damage to property.  Anything involving theft
or injury comes to you for review.”  The paladin nodded in approval.  “I must
say, I’m happy to see an end to the brutality.  It’s good to have someone with
a heart in command again.”

“Again? 
You knew my grandfather?”

“He
knighted me.”  The grizzled old face split into a grin, but the joy faded.  “No
disrespect to your father, of course.”

“My
father deserved your disrespect, Lord MalEnthal.  The empire’s a better place
without him.”

“Yes,
milord.”  The knight frowned deeply.

Arbuckle
wondered what acts of brutality MalEnthal had committed under the orders of
Tynean Tsing II, then realized he’d rather not know.  That chapter in the
empire’s history was closed.  It would take years to right the wrongs, but
holding a grudge against those forced by their oaths of fealty into
implementing the will of a brutal tyrant would do no good.

Arbuckle
left the chamber with his entourage once again at his heels and new hope in his
heart.  “That should take some of the weight off my shoulders.  Three extra
sets of eyes to review court cases will make the work go much faster.”  The
fourth paladin in residence had been unfit to serve, the man’s mind addled with
advanced years.  “What next, Tennison?”

The
secretary consulted his ledger.  “The vote, milord.  All the senior nobles of
the city await you in the Great Hall.  Afterward will be a discussion of the
coronation plans.”

“Must
all
the provincial dukes be present for the coronation?”  Arbuckle
chafed at the delay.

“Yes,
milord.”  Tennison looked apologetic.  “They must personally swear fealty once
you’re crowned emperor.  The law’s quite clear.”

“I
suppose we mustn’t flout the law.  Perhaps today’s vote can abolish one of my
father’s unjust ones.”  Until he took the throne, trying to cajole two-thirds
of his ranking nobles into supporting his changes was his only recourse.

They
descended the sweeping stairway to the ground floor and turned down the long
Hall of Arms.  The gleaming coats of arms of each noble house hung for all to see,
and beneath each stood an imperial guard, as immobile as a statue.

“I
don’t suppose there’s any way we can hasten the coronation.”

“Short
of magic, none that I know of, milord.”

“Magic…” 
Arbuckle cocked his head in thought.  “Do you think the Imperial Retinue of Wizards
would be willing to transport the dukes to the city?  I know not everyone has
access to a capable wizard, but I’m sure Duveau could think of something.”

“I’m
afraid not, milord.  None of the dukes would agree to attend without their families,
servants, and a
mountain
of baggage.  We can only urge them politely to
make haste.”

Best
just buckle down and play by the rules, Arbuckle
.  He’d spent his whole life
playing by someone else’s rules.  A few more weeks wouldn’t kill him. 
Unless
the next assassination attempt does
.  His stomach soured at the thought.

They
stopped before the Great Hall’s towering double doors, and Arbuckle drew a deep
breath to quell his nervousness. Every noble on his list of potential
masterminds behind the assassination attempt would be in this room.

As
the doors opened, a herald cracked his staff twice upon the marble floor.
“Crown Prince Arbuckle of Tsing, Heir to the Throne!”

With
a slow, dignified step, Arbuckle entered the hall, mounted the low dais, and
took his seat.  Nearly a hundred senior nobles arced around the front of the
dais.  Arbuckle noted that many had brought their daughters with them, the young
ladies unduly primped for a business meeting.  As the unmarried heir to the
empire, beautiful ladies swarmed to him like bees to honey, but Arbuckle had
more important things on his mind than courting potential empresses.

Tennison
opened his ledger.  “Honored nobles of Tsing, you attend this assembly to cast
your vote for or against an amendment to the law regarding punishment of
commoners proposed by Crown Prince Arbuckle.  In brief, this amendment
stipulates that corporal punishment of a servant or commoner may only be
carried out after the accused is found guilty of committing a crime, and only
under the aegis of the Tsing City Constabulary.  A two-thirds vote is required
for—”

The
chamber doors burst open, and two columns of blademasters strode into the Great
Hall.  They were led by High Priest Saepse, wearing long black robes
embroidered with a silver sword and a grim expression.  Parting the crowd, they
advanced and stopped before the dais.

The
hair rose on Arbuckle’s neck. 
Why were they here?
  His eyes flicked
around the roomful of nobles and their scions. 
Some threat to my safety
? 
An assassination plot
?

Captain
Ithross hurried up, his face a mask of worry.  “Milord Prince, I’m sorry for
the interruption.  They—”

Arbuckle
raised his hand, trying to appear calm.  “Don’t apologize, Captain.  I’m sure
there’s a good reason for this.”  Only then did Arbuckle realize that every
off-duty blademaster bound to imperial service accompanied the high priest.  “High
Priest Saepse, what’s going on here?”

“I
will explain, Milord Prince.”  The priest’s fingers flicked in the silent
language of the blademasters.

Immediately,
the bodyguards at Arbuckle’s side strode from the dais to join their ranks of
brethren, standing with eyes forward, expressionless faces, and hands on the
hilts of their swords.  The prince felt instantly and conspicuously vulnerable,
as if he’d just walked naked into a room full of people bearing daggers and ill
will.

“Milord!” 
Tennison’s voice came in an urgent hiss.  “You are without protection!”

“Guards!” 
Ithross waved the imperial guards positioned around the room to the dais, and they
form a thin line around their lord.

 “My
Lord Prince.”  High Priest Saepse dropped to one knee and bowed his head.  The
rest of the blademasters clutched their fists to their chests and bowed in the
sacred gesture they performed during their oath-taking ceremony, when they
pledged their lives—and deaths—to their master.

Arbuckle’s
brow furrowed as he stood, a surge of fear clenching his gut.  “High Priest
Saepse, what’s this about?”

Saepse
looked up.  “It is about
failure
, milord.  The failure of my order, my
faith, and my brethren.”

Murmurs
swept through the crowd of wide-eyed nobles and attendants.  Ithross looked
nervous, his knuckles white on the hilt of his sword.

“I
don’t understand.”

“Please
accept my deepest apologies, milord.  The Order of The Sword failed the House
of Tsing when our charge, Tynean Tsing II, was murdered.”  He raised a hand and
flicked his fingers.  As one, the blademasters drew their swords and formed a
circle around their priest.

The
nobles backed away from the bared weapons, murmurs of disbelief and concern
rising like a whispering tide.

“Swords!”
yelled Ithross, drawing his blade.  The imperial guards mirrored his action, a
fragile barrier between Arbuckle and the most deadly swordsmen in the empire.

At
another gesture from the high priest, each blademaster lifted his sword in
salute, then lowered the tip, touching the back of the man before him to form
an unbroken chain of steel and flesh.  Saepse drew a long dagger from his robe,
gazed skyward, and placed the tip against the hollow of his throat.

“Failure
is the ultimate sin,” the priest said.  “There can be only one atonement!”

Arbuckle
couldn’t believe his eyes.  “No!”

High
Priest Saepse sheathed the dagger in his flesh.  In the same instant, the
blademasters thrust in perfect unison, each sword piercing the heart of the
next man in the circle.  They all fell as one.

After
an instant of shocked silence, a woman’s scream pierced the air.  The crowd of
nobles scrambled back.

Arbuckle
stared in slack-jawed horror at the bodies encircling the high priest, their
life blood spreading slowly across the cool marble floor.  Fear prickled every
nerve in the prince’s body.  His blademasters—loyal, inviolate,
invulnerable—were gone.  He couldn’t think of what to do, what to say. 

Captain
Ithross solved that problem for him.

“Clear
the chamber!  Imperial Guard, to me!  Protect your prince!  Herald, call the
guards from the hallway to assist!”  Ithross turned to Arbuckle, lowering his
voice. “Milord Prince, this is not safe!  We must take you to someplace secure
until protection can be arranged.  Please, come with me.”  He gestured to a
side door.

“Yes,
I…”  Arbuckle stepped off the dais and nearly fell, his knees trembled so
badly.  He tried to subdue his pounding heart.  The heir to the empire needed
to act calm, even if he didn’t feel it.

Someone
grabbed the prince’s arm, and he jumped.  Tennison pushed gently, nodding to
the impatient captain.  “Go with them, please, milord.  I’ll take care of
everything.”

“Yes.” 
Arbuckle nodded numbly.  “Thank you, Tennison.  Captain, lead on.”

Surrounded
by a cordon of naked steel, he fled the hall.  Murmurs and shouts broke out
behind him, answered by Tennison’s steady voice, but Arbuckle couldn’t catch a
single word over the roaring in his ears. 
I’m vulnerable!  There’s nothing
between me and an assassin’s blade now
.

“Hear
the news!  Hear the news!  Blademasters of Koss Godslayer all dead!”

It
took a moment for the town crier’s words to register through Mya’s fatigue. 
She had been studying the cult of Demia all morning in hopes of learning more
about Hoseph, and her mind was swimming with religious details she wished she’d
never learned.  Now she stopped short. 
Blademasters all dead?
 
Are
they releasing details of Tynean Tsing’s death now, a week later?
 That
seemed strange.  Why advertise that the vaunted blademasters were fallible? 
Their myth was a greater deterrent than the now-tarnished truth.

“All
blademasters dead as high priest orders suicide!”

Suicide?
 
What?
  Mya moved into the
Midtown crowd surrounding the crier, enduring the push and shove of sweaty
bodies as she listened to the dramatic recitation of how the entire Order of
the Sword had taken their own lives right in front of the crown prince.

“That’s
impossible!” cried someone when the man had finished his message.

“It’s
true!” the crier insisted.  “It happened in the Great Hall!  Dozens of nobles
witnessed it!”

Ignoring
the cries of disbelief and catcalls about lying nobles, Mya forced her way free
of the crowd.  She doubted a town crier would shout out unsubstantiated rumors,
but this sounded too incredible to believe.  She sought out a
posterboard—businesses all around town paid a modest fee to have the boards
erected outside their doors in hopes of attracting customers—and shoved through
the crowd of people to read the newly posted notice.  The news was true.