Weapon of Fear (40 page)

“Thank
you, milord.”  Keyfur pressed the crystal to the center of his forehead, and
uttered a phrase that seemed to evaporate in the air before the mind could
grasp its meaning.

Keyfur
vanished.

Everyone
in the room stirred uncomfortably.

“I’m
still present, milord, and standing in the same place.  I can maintain this as
long as I concentrate on the spell.  If anything happens to me, or I have to
cast another spell, the bending of light that renders me invisible will fail.”

“I
understand.”  Arbuckle nodded, and the mage suddenly reappeared.

“A
doppelganger might look like someone you know, but be Duveau.  A simulacrum is
a construct that can act like a person, but won’t stand up to close scrutiny. 
They can’t speak, have no bodily functions like sweat, tears, or body odor, and
they don’t bleed.”  Keyfur pursed his lips.  “I can’t best Duveau alone, but I
should be able to hold off his magic for a time.  A minute, maybe two, at
most.  I might surprise him with a trick or two long enough for someone else to
kill him, but not while I’m protecting you.”

“We’ll
have wooden armor and bone weapons made, milord.” Ithross said.  “Archers with
bone tipped arrows will ward you whenever possible.”

“A
fine idea, but it will take time to attire the entire knighthood in wood and
horn.”  Calvert still sounded skeptical.  “And it’ll cause rumors.  Squires
will talk.”

“We
begin with those of us close to the prince, then anyone else in close
proximity, but only those we trust absolutely.  Word mustn’t get out that we’re
doing this.”  Ithross looked grim.  “And we must limit your exposure, milord.”

Arbuckle
nodded, and looked down at the rings on his fingers, then fingered the golden
circle on his brow.  “By the Nine Hells, I’m wearing enough metal right now to
sink a skiff.”

The
knights chuckled nervously, but Arbuckle’s valet, Baris, stepped forward and
bowed.  “Pardon me, milord, but you needn’t if you don’t wish to.”

“What?” 
Arbuckle looked to Baris questioningly.  “What do you mean?”

“I
mean you needn’t wear metal, milord.  There are paste mock-ups for display. 
Your grandfather had them made after the theft of a jewel from his crown.”

Arbuckle
knew the story; there were few who didn’t.  “Well, I suppose that would fool a
casual glance, but I can hardly wear them at court.”

“You
could, milord, and nobody’d be the wiser.  They’re quite convincing.  Your
father used to wear the paste crown for formal occasions because it’s so much
lighter than the real one.”

“He
did?”  Arbuckle tried—and failed—to picture his tyrant father wearing a paste
crown.  He had never suspected.

“Yes,
milord.”

“That
solves part of the problem, but hardly the rest.”  Sir Calvert rapped his
metal-clad knuckles against the breastplate of his armor.

“Is
there no way to neutralize Duveau’s magic?” Arbuckle asked.

“None
that I know of, milord.”  Keyfur shrugged helplessly.

“Wonderful.” 
Arbuckle resumed pacing, chewing his lip and wracking his brain for some idea
that might save his life.  “We must all try to think of some way to thwart
Duveau.  There’s more of concern here than my life.  There is an empire at
stake, ladies and gentlemen.”

Hoseph
woke to the cloying taste of old blood and a persistent ache between his
temples.  That he woke at all came as a cold comfort.  He blinked eyes gummy
with sleep.  The lamp had burned low, revealing only dim shapes.  Nausea
threatened as he tried to rise, but he swallowed it down.  He worked his tongue
around his mouth and found no broken teeth, though he must have bitten his
tongue or cheek when he fell.  Demia’s grace had healed his wounds as he slept,
but he was still sore and his head ached, either from the trauma of his wounds
or his use of the talisman.

What
time…no, what
day
is it?

Forcing
himself up, he paused on hands and knees to allow the dizziness and nausea to
ease, then stood.  Leaning on the desk for support, he turned up the lamp.  The
amount of dried blood on the floor, chair, and his ruined robes explained his
weakness.  His failure, however, weighed even more heavily upon him than the
aftermath of his injuries.  Mya had slipped his grasp.  Once again, a task he
had thought straightforward had turned out to be more than he had anticipated. 
This time, he’d nearly lost his life as a consequence.

You’re
no assassin
… 
Forcing himself to realize that simple truth could only aid his cause.  There
was no shame in admitting defeat in the face of a competent adversary.  Mya had
cleverly surrounded herself with crude but effective defenses.  He had
neutralized one child defender, not expecting a second one wielding a club. 
Fortunately, Hoseph had other resources he could draw upon to deal with her
precautions.

He
stripped out of his blood-crusted garments and poured water into the basin,
then scrubbed himself thoroughly.  The cool water washed away the scabbed blood
to reveal a livid pink scar on his hip.  The wound was healed, but Demia had
left him a reminder of his failure. 
Good…I won’t underestimate my adversary
again.

After
toweling dry and bundling the bloody clothing to be discarded later, he knelt
on his bedroll to shave.  His hands shook enough with his lingering fatigue to
nick his scalp a few times, but he took that small pain as another reminder of
his failure.  Finished, he donned a new robe, sat on the floor, and recited his
morning prayers, giving thanks to the Keeper of the Slain for his gifts, for
every beat of his heart, and for the solace he knew he would receive when it
beat no more.  A cool calm spread through him.

He
ate a meager meal of bread, cheese, and hard sausage, washing down with water. 
While he ate, he thought of his next step.  When he stood once again, his knees
barely trembled, though his head still throbbed.  Was that also a reminder?

Hoseph
withdrew the silver skull from his sleeve and gazed into its deep black eyes. 
Demia’s gift stared back at him without judgment.  His prayers had brought
comfort; how could the use of Demia’s gift bring such discomfort?  He felt as
if he was missing something important.  He couldn’t deny that his headaches and
fatigue were getting worse.  Demia would not harm her disciples, but she might
remind them of their failures, or punish if one misused her blessings.  Was
Demia displeased with him?

The
Keeper of the Slain cares not for the machinations of kings, queens, wizards,
or commoners.
  The
old mantra brought comfort.  Though his hip still ached, and his head throbbed
in time with his heartbeat, his injuries had been healed by his goddess’
grace.  He was still one with the Demia, and his use of the talisman was
necessary.

Hoseph
invoked it once again and felt the mists devour his physical form, sensed the
swirling nothingness of the Sphere around him.  He took solace in the brief
abeyance of his nagging aches and pains before reluctantly continuing on to his
destination.  Lady T’s sitting room coalesced around him.  Midmorning light
streamed through the windows, and he realized that he’d slept late.

Lady
T looked up from a sheaf of papers.  She’d apparently become used to his
frequent comings and goings, for she didn’t even start.  “You’re as pale as
death warmed over.  Did something frighten you terribly?”

“No!”
Hoseph bristled.  “I found Mya’s refuge.  However, her defenses are
considerable, and I was injured.”

One
immaculate eyebrow arched.  “Is she…”

“As
far as I know, she’s alive.”

“You
mean you
missed
.”  The guildmaster’s lips pressed together in a hard
line.  “You said you could kill her, so I helped you find her, and you
missed
!”

“I
was attacked and had to flee.”  Hoseph said it matter-of-factly, as if the
memory of being bested by a child and a common assassin wasn’t humiliating.  “I
need you to assign some Hunters to track her.  After last night, she’ll
probably move her base of operations, and I need to know where she goes.  Also,
contract some mercenaries outside of the guild.  She’ll be wary, and I’ll need
people who can actually raise a hand against her.  The time for subtlety is
over.  She’s already brought at least one assassin up from Twailin.  She’s
marshaling her forces.”

“No.” 
Lady T returned her attention to her papers.

“
What?
”

“I’ve
told you, I’m not going to assign any member of the guild to spy on Mya.  She’s
a skilled Hunter, and likely to spot anyone following her.  She’ll track them
back to the guild, and I’ll be implicated.  She knows where I live and would
kill me.  I’ll not allow
your
ineptitude to cost me my life.”  Lady T
scratched a signature on a paper and flipped it onto another pile.  “If you
want to contract someone outside the guild to kill her, you’ll do so without my
help or knowledge.  I can recommend someone reliable and supply funds, but you
will
not
use my name.”

Hoseph
seethed, but could hardly refute her logic.  “That will suffice.  But time is
of the essence.”

“Here.” 
She scrawled something on a blank sheet and flipped it across the desk.  “Speak
to a man named Dagel.”  She opened a drawer and withdrew a small leather
pouch.  It jingled when she dropped it atop the paper.

Hoseph
tucked the heavy pouch in his pocket and glanced at the paper.  The address was
in the Wharf District.  He wasn’t familiar with the exact location, but knew someplace
close enough that he wouldn’t have to walk far.

Lady
T flicked her pen between her fingers, clicking it annoyingly against the desk
top.  “I wish you’d forget about Mya.  We’ve ignored her this long; a little
longer won’t matter.”

“It
will if she thwarts another assassination attempt.”

 “She
can’t get into the palace, and even if she could, Mya couldn’t stand against
the archmage.  The coronation is in three days.  When is Duveau going to
fulfill his end of the bargain?”

“I
don’t know exactly, but he’ll do it before Arbuckle is crowned.”

“And
if he betrays us?”

“He
won’t.  I have something he wants very badly.”

The
guildmaster cocked her head.  “What did you offer to induce an archmage to
commit regicide?”

“It’s
not something you need to know.”

Lady
T pouted prettily, then flicked her pen again.  “Fine.  Keep your little
secret, but I think—” 

Hoseph
didn’t stay to hear the lady’s thoughts.  He invoked his talisman and faded
into the Sphere of Shadow.  He had to hire some mercenaries.

Mya
rubbed her eyes and tried to think.  The hammers seemed to be pounding within
her head.  It didn’t help that she hadn’t slept well, even with two of her
urchins watching over her.  Thoughts and worries scurried around her mind like
a nest of rats, denying her rest.

Tiny
dead…

Hoseph
knows where we live…

Crown
Prince Arbuckle…

Lady
T…

They’re
beautiful
…

Dee’s
comment befuddled her more than anything else.  She knew how to respond to a
threat to her safety, an insult or warning, but Dee’s compliment had completely
blindsided her.  She’d always thought her tattoos made her a monster, and he
thought they were beautiful?  She didn’t know how to handle that.

Mya
shuddered.  She’d spend a lifetime protecting her secrets, keeping herself
apart to stay safe. 
So, why did you explain your tattoos to him?
 
Why
did you show him?
  She didn’t know, but those questions and a hundred more
wouldn’t let her rest.  Finally, with the first light of dawn, she’d risen,
dressed, and begun fortifying their ridiculously vulnerable fortress.  The
urchins had pitched right in, working as if their lives depended upon it. 
Which, of course, they did.