Weapon of Fear (9 page)

“Blast
it!”  He slammed a book closed and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his
burning eyes.

A
scratch to his right caught his ear, and he opened his eyes to see his scribe,
Verul, sitting with his leger on his lap.  The notion of his petulant outburst
being recorded for posterity almost made him laugh.

“Gods
of Light, Verul, tell me you didn’t record that!”

The
scribe looked up startled, but Arbuckle’s smile took the sting out of the
outburst.  “Yes, milord, I did.”  His lips twitched, and his pen scratched. 
“Every word.  Even that.”

The
notion brought a memory of their conversation after his speech in the plaza. 
“Verul, did you get that transcription of your notes from yesterday?  I could
use a reminder of what I’m working for.”

“Of
course, Milord Prince.”  Verul hurried out and returned in moments bearing a
massive leather-bound tome.  “Here you are.”  He opened it on the desk and
turned to the proper page.

Arbuckle
read, reliving his words to the crowd in the plaza, annotated with their delighted
reactions.  When he’d finished, however, he felt vaguely discomforted.  The
archive didn’t read quite as he remembered.  Of course, he’d been caught up in
the excitement, so perhaps his memories weren’t to be trusted.

He
flipped back a few pages and read.  Still, he felt something wasn’t quite
right.  Back again, until once more, he was in his father’s torture chamber. 
Arbuckle hadn’t even realized that Verul had accompanied him into that hell
hole, yet there it was, recorded in precise horrifying detail. 
But
…

“Verul!”

“Yes,
Milord Prince?”  The scribe was at his side in a moment, book and pen at the
ready. 

“You
recorded the night in the dungeons, right?”

“Yes,
milord.”

“And
you still have your original shorthand notes there?” He pointed to the ledger
in the scribe’s hands.

“Yes.”

“Read
me what you have after I...”—Arbuckle swallowed hard—“after I was ill.”

The
scribe flipped back several pages of his book and began reading.  “Commander
Ithross: Milord Prince, you must go.  Crown Prince Arbuckle: No.  Your cloak,
Sir Fineal.  Aside: Crown prince lays Fineal’s cloak over the body of the dead
woman.  Crown Prince Arbuckle: Master Corvecosi, take care of her.  Master
Corvecosi: As you wish, Milord Prince.  I’ll also see that your father’s body
is properly attend—.  Crown Prince Arbuckle: No.  Divest him of any
accoutrements of his former office, then burn his corpse and cast the ashes
down the nearest cesspit.”

“Enough!” 
Arbuckle bit back his temper.  “Now, this is how the archive reads.  Ithross:
Milord Prince, you must go.  Crown Prince Arbuckle: No.  Your cloak, Sir
Fineal.  Aside: Crown prince lays cloak over the body of the
emperor
. 
Crown Prince Arbuckle: Master Corvecosi, take care of him.  Master Corvecosi:
As you wish, Milord Prince.  I’ll also see that the spy’s body is properly
attended to.  Crown Prince Arbuckle: No.  Burn the corpse and cast the ashes
down the nearest cesspit.”

“I…I
don’t understand.”  Verul looked panicked.

“Your
version rings truer than the archived version.”  Arbuckle gritted his teeth. 
“Who is in charge of transcribing your notes?”

“Imperial
Archivist Kelnik oversees all the archives.  Not only the transcripts, but all
governmental papers, court documents, and legal proceedings.”

“Tennison,
send for the imperial archivist.”

While
he waited, Arbuckle and compared several more transcribed sections with the
originals.  Many matched word for word, but some transcripts had been altered
to show the emperor—or Arbuckle, in the newer transcripts—in a favorable light.

Soon
enough, Tennison opened the door to admit a robed figure, a pale face beneath a
shock of white hair, spectacles perched on a long, thin nose.  The man’s back
was bent from years hunched over a desk, but he looked no older than sixty.

“Master
Kelnik, I don’t believe we’ve ever met.”

“No,
Milord Prince, we have not, though I have documented your life upon many
occasions.”  Kelnik smiled and bowed.

The
notion chilled Arbuckle’s bones. 
My life
…  “How long have you been
Imperial Archivist, and what exactly are your duties?”

“It’s
been thirty years since your father appointed me.  All the records of the realm
are my responsibility: making fair copies, cataloging, that sort of thing.”

Arbuckle
raised his eyebrows.  “That’s a lot of paperwork.  Surely you have help.”

Kelnik
chuckled.  “I do, milord, four junior archivists, but the ultimate
responsibility is mine.”

“And
part of that responsibility is to ensure that the daily transcriptions are
accurate?”

“Of
course, milord.”

“And
if I were to tell you that they are not, in fact, accurate?”

For
the first time, Kelnik’s smile faltered.  “I would beg to differ, milord.  They
are accurate.”

“Are
they now?”  Arbuckle frowned and pointed to the two books, Verul’s ledger and
the archival volume.  “Master Kelnik, do you know how to read shorthand?”

“Of
course.”

“Good. 
Please read and compare the open pages.”

Kelnik
peered intently at the books.  After a couple of minutes, he stood and smiled
proudly.  “Excellent work, that.  Transcribed by TSU,”—he pointed a crooked
finger at a tiny notation in the lower right-hand corner of the archive
page—“Tamira Soveal Ursin.  I trained her myself.”

Arbuckle
stared in shock at the man’s curious attitude.  “Explain to me why there’s a
discrepancy between the two versions.”

“Oh,
we don’t consider that a
discrepancy
, Milord Prince.  We merely
clean
up
the transcript.  As you well know, the archive is the
official
record of an emperor’s reign maintained for posterity.  You’ll find no
disparagement to His Majesty within.  And be assured, we’ll take the same care
of the records for
your
reign!”

“Why
in the names of all the
gods
would you do that?” Arbuckle couldn’t hold
his temper in check.

Now
it was Kelnik’s turn to look bewildered and clearly frightened. 
“But…but…that’s the way we’ve
always
done it!  I was
trained
thus.  Your father himself commended me on a job well done!”

“And
the original notes?”

“Destroyed
once they’re fully transcribed, milord.  Why would we keep them?”

Arbuckle
fumed, remembering an old adage: 
History is written by the winners
. 
Those words rang horrifyingly true. 
Not during my reign
!

“Master
Kelnik, I’m afraid you are unwittingly complicit in something that is
tantamount to treason.”

“Treason?” 
The man stumbled back a step.  “Milord, I
never
—”

Arbuckle
raised a hand for silence, though Verul’s pen continued to scratch along.  At
least those words would be archived accurately.

“You
were instructed by my father to alter records, and you did as you were
ordered.  I hold no fault on you for this, and absolve you of any wrongdoing,
but this practice must
stop
!”  He stood and went to his wall of
bookshelves, fingering the leather-bound spines.  “If we don’t record every
word accurately and honestly, no future historian can learn from our
mistakes.”  He picked out a volume of recent lore, barely thirty years old, and
held it out for the archivist to see.  “Your actions, on the orders of my
father, have made this a lie.”  He dropped the book to the floor.

Kelnik
stared down at the book in horror.  “Milord, I…”  He dropped to his knees,
reaching out to touch the fallen tome, and looked up, his eyes swimming with
tears.  “My life’s work, milord!  It cannot be
all
lies.”

“Perhaps
not, but without the original notes, we can’t discern truth from fiction.”

“I’m…sorry,
milord.”  He bowed his head, tears darkening the leather cover of the book he
held.

“I
can’t hold you responsible, but I also can’t hold you in my service any
longer.  I’m afraid I can’t trust you to truthfully record my reign, Master
Kelnik.”  Arbuckle felt horrible, but knew he was right.  A lifetime of
training could not be broken.

“Let
me fix it!”  Kelnik looked up, his face streaked with misery.  “Let me
correct
it!”

“Trade
one fiction for another?”  Arbuckle shook his head.  “No.  No, we’ll append the
records with notes indicating their questionable accuracy.  When that’s done,
you will be dismissed from imperial service with your full pension.  I’m sorry,
Master Kelnik, but I can’t trust you.”

“I
understand, milord.”  Kelnik struggled to his feet and bowed.

Once
Tennison had shuffled the wretched archivist from the room, Arbuckle turned to
his scribe.  “Verul, would you be interested in his position?”

“I…
“  Verul stared at him, his eyes as round as eggs.  “With all due respect,
Milord Prince, I’d rather stay at your side.  Someone’s got to make sure your
words are recorded accurately.”

Arbuckle
smiled.  He liked this man.  “I’ll hold you to that, Verul.  Mine with be an
open, honest reign.  See to Master Kelnik’s replacement, and the notations I
mentioned.”  He pointed to the shorthand ledger in Verul’s hand.  “And the
original notes are to be kept from now on.  Nothing is to be destroyed.  Make
sure the junior archivists are retrained properly.  I’m just going to be
reading for the next few hours, so why don’t you go and do that now, before
there’s something important to record.  You can send up an assistant if you’re
going to be very long.”

“At
once, milord!”  Verul hurried out.

The
crown prince turned back to his books, looking on the volumes littering his
desk in a new light. 
Truth or fiction?
he wondered.  The law, at least,
was clear, though it seemed to be against him.  He had promised the common
people of Tsing justice.

I’ll
be damned before I let the law make me a liar
.

Hoseph
materialized in Lady T’s sitting room and found himself staring down the shaft
of a crossbow bolt once again.  He felt a brief wave of dizziness, and passed
it off as eye strain from focusing on the bolt’s needle-sharp head quivering
mere inches from his face.

“Put
that down!”

The
lady of the house clenched her jaw and lowered the crossbow.  ““Damn it,
Hoseph!  You need to stop appearing unannounced.  I’ve already had one
heart-stopping surprise visitor today.”

Her
obvious discomfort ignited his curiosity.  “Who might that have been?”

“Mya.” 
She put down the crossbow and headed for her dressing room.

He
followed her, his mind reeling.  “And you let her leave alive?”

“I
didn’t have a choice.  She wears the Grandmaster’s ring.  She told me she was
taking over the guild.”  She pulled a dress down from the rack and glared at
it.

“She
took it for herself?”  That surprised him.  He would have thought Lad would
claim the ring as he had the Twailin guildmaster’s.  “What about Lad?”

“She
told me that she killed him.”  Lady T put the dress back and picked another,
turning to hold it up before her as she looked into the full-length mirror. 
“She said she deserved it more than he did.”

“That
doesn’t make sense.  She stepped between Lad and the Grandmaster’s blade,
risked her
life
for him.  Why would she kill him?”

“With
the Grandmaster’s
ring
up for grabs?”  She looked at him in the mirror,
one eyebrow arched.

Mya
was certainly ambitious, of that there was no doubt.  Hoseph had originally
suggested appointing Mya as Twailin guildmaster based on reports of her quick
mind and leadership qualities.  Still, something didn’t make sense.  If Mya
killed Lad before he had a chance to don the ring, why not simply leave the
body there?  She might be strong, but Norwood was in no condition to walk, and she
couldn’t have carried the bodies of two grown men—one dead, one incapacitated—out
the passage. 
Unless she didn’t
.

“Have
you checked the passage into the palace dungeons?”  Only someone with a guildmaster’s
ring could access the tunnel leading from the guild-owned wine shop into the dungeon.

Lady
T wrinkled her brow.  “No.  Why?”

“I
don’t know if I believe Mya.  She might be hiding Lad somewhere.”  There were
still too many unanswered questions.  “You should check the passage for any
sign of them.  Now, why did she come here?”

“I
told you: to tell me she was taking over as Grandmaster.”  Picking out a green
gown, she held it up before her and looked in the mirror.

“How
does she propose to manage a takeover without—”  He looked at Lady T anew. 
“She tried to recruit you.”

“She
gave me two options: help her or die.”  Lady T returned the green gown to the
rack and picked out a red one.