Weapon of Flesh (13 page)

“Years...”

But Lad had mastered many tasks that had required years of study and practice; his whole
life
had been a single task to perfect his art, adding the skills of many masters into one perfect weapon: the perfect killer.  Years, indeed, a lifetime he had spent at this, and if it took another lifetime to find the source—the impetus of all his work, all his mastery—he would spend that lifetime searching.

And he would succeed.  Lad would find his destiny among the people of Twailin, or he would die in the attempt.  It was all he could do.  It was what he was
made
to do.

A soft night breeze ruffled his hair, stirring him from his quiet musing.  He stood immobile in the center of the road for a time, his gaze slowly rising up to the glittering canopy of the stars overhead, then falling back down to the carpet of lights that beckoned him into their midst.  His thoughts finally coalesced into one clear idea.

“How?”

This was, of course, the next logical question, his next decision.  Unlike any other decision he had made, this was not a simple yes or no, right or left, hide or stand question.  This task was complex, and he had no master or instructor to guide him.  He was alone and would have to rely on himself and what he knew of what he was, and what he was looking for.

The former was simple, he was a weapon, trained to kill in any environment without being detected, caught or killed.  Who might want such a weapon?  He had no idea.  Warriors used weapons, he knew, but rarely did warriors use others to do their fighting for them, at least that he knew of.  So, if he were a weapon, who would wield him?  Someone who could not wield a weapon for themselves?

Lad knew nothing of the wants or needs of men; power was a concept of which he was totally ignorant.  Would a man use his skills to protect himself from others, or simply to slay his enemies?  Neither struck Lad as a questionable pursuit, for he had certainly never been taught concepts of right and wrong, good and bad.  He was made to kill—efficiently, economically, and silently if need be—without being killed himself.  With that in mind, Lad stretched out his foot and took the first step down the hill into the valley of Twailin where his destiny lay, his curiosity burning within him like the fires that lit the city below.

When sun’s first ray touched the highest spire of the estate of the master of the Assassins’ Guild, the door to the Grandfather’s private chambers burst open with a resounding crash.

“Valet!”  His voice cracked through the corridors with the echoes of his mistreated door.

“Yes, Grandfather.”  The man materialized from the shadow of an alcove, bowing low, alert and attentive as always.

“Send a messenger to the House of Seven Sins.”  He strode past his prostrate servant, continuing his instructions.  “Inform them that their trainee did not withstand my attentions.  She expired some time in the hours of the early morning.  The agreed-upon sum will be sent via courier.”

“At once, Grandfather.”  The man recovered from his bow and trotted to catch up to his master.  “Your bath has been drawn, and breakfast awaits in the morning room, Grandfather.  Also, a girl claiming to be in the employ of Master Hunter Targus arrived late last night with a message for you.  She is waiting in the foyer.”

“From Targus?”  He stopped so quickly that the valet had to sidestep to avoid bumping into him.

“Yes, Grandfather.  She spouted something about finding a weapon that belonged to you.  She would not leave.  She was injured, but the healer has seen to her.”

“My weapon...”  The valet kept his gaze lowered respectfully, and so did not see the narrowing of his master’s eyes, the thinning of his lips or the flush of color that flooded those wizened features.  “Follow me.”

“Of course, Grandfather.”

The valet’s steps whisked quietly behind the utterly silent ones of his master as the two descended to the second floor, trod the carpeted halls to the front of the estate, then finally started down the broad sweeping stair that emptied into the foyer.  So quiet was their approach that the slumped figure seated upon the lowest step did not stir until the glowering guard tapped her with his boot.  The girl scrambled up.  Her sleepy eyes darted around the room and centered on the guard, who nodded up the stair to the descending pair.  She whirled and dropped to one knee at the last step, her hands out and open, palms up, her face down.

“Grandfather!”  Her voice was thick with fatigue, her hair and clothing disheveled.  “I bear news of your weapon, Sir.  I saw him on the eastern road yesterday.  I rode as fast as I could to bring you the news.  He is headed this way, but may have already reached the city!”

At a twitch of his wrist, a broad-bladed dagger dropped into the Grandfather’s left hand.  He brought the blade down in front of the girl’s face, and angled the tip upward until it touched her chin.  She did not flinch, but tilted her head back as that deadly pressure indicated she should.  Her face was slightly pale, and a light sheen of sweat had broken out on her brow, but her eyes were clear and sharp, and they met his without wavering.

“What is your name, girl?”

“Mya, Grandfather.”  Her voice betrayed some of her fear, but not as much as he had expected.  His lip twitched with a combination of disappointment and intrigue, the tip of the blade turning her head slightly.  Her face bore a wide bruise and several scrapes from jaw to temple.

“And when did you arrive here with this message, Mya?”

“Last night, Sir.  Just before midnight.”

“And why, dear Mya, did you not deliver your message upon your arrival?”  The tip of the dagger pricked her skin just enough to allow a drop of blood to ooze down the blade.  She remained perfectly still, eyes fixed on his, her lips working without her jaw moving in an attempt to keep the blade from piercing more deeply.

“Such was my intent, Grandfather, but I was told that you were not to be disturbed.  I had little hope to win past your guards and your valet to bring you the news.”

His eyes left hers and fixed the guard standing behind her with a narrow stare.

“Is this true?”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

His eyes returned to hers, and his lip twitched once again.  The dagger left Mya’s chin for the span of one fluttering heartbeat, and when it returned it was drenched to the hilt.  A fine spray of blood spattered Mya’s upturned face, but again, she did not flinch.  A gasp from the Grandfather’s left evolved into a gurgle, and the valet fell past them, his throat slit neatly from earlobe to earlobe.  He was dead before he hit the floor.

“Stand up, Mya.”

His dagger stayed at her chin as she stood upon legs shaky from fear or a long sleepless night on a hard marble floor.  She was not tall—the top of her head was still below his shoulders as he stood upon the lowest step of the stair.  Young and fit, but slight of frame, he remembered her from the courtyard when he sent Targus on the hunt.  There was less fear in her eyes than he would have liked, but that also could have been blunted by her obvious exhaustion.

“When last did you see my weapon?”  He lowered the dagger slowly, but kept it in his hand.

“Yesterday just before midday, Grandfather.”  Still, she did not move, even to wipe the blood from her face.

“And where?”

“A quarterday’s hard ride west of the crossroads to Melfey, Grandfather.”  She swallowed and blinked once.  “At his pace, he would have arrived just at dawn.”

“Guard, find Sereth and send him on horseback to the east road gate.  Tell him he is to watch for a boy entering alone.  If he sees this boy, he is to follow without being seen or heard.  Go.”

“Yes, Grandfather!”  The guard started off, but Mya’s shout brought him up short.

“He’s dressed like a slave: brown tunic, rope belt, short trousers and no shoes.  He’s got sandy hair, and he’s thin.  About my height.”  The guard looked at her, then at the Grandfather, confusion evident on his face; the guildmaster’s guards were trained to take orders from one person only, not some upstart second apprentice.

“Anything else?” the Grandfather asked, one eyebrow cocking in amusement.

“Yes; he walks like you, Sir.  More grace than a dancer, and he leaves no tracks.  He’s strange to talk to, like he knows nothing of the world.  He asked me what a city was.”

“Tell Sereth all of that.  Now go, and tell him to hurry.  We may still be lucky.”  His eyes lost focus for a moment, his thoughts racing ahead to all the possible permutations of effect this new information could set into motion.  He snapped to focus again, his eyes fixing onto Mya’s like a hawk acquiring prey.

“You will come with me, Mya.  I have been informed that there is a bath waiting, and breakfast after.  You look like you could do with both; and while you bathe and eat, you will tell me every detail since you left this estate with Targus.”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

“Good.”  Two more guards entered the foyer as the Grandfather turned, his right hand extending to guide Mya up the stairs. “Guards, have my valet removed.  We no longer require his services.  And send my scribe and artist to the morning room.”

Lad’s steps were those of a man in a trance.  As the glow of predawn lightened the dark streets, then turned into morning, his awe of his surroundings doubled and redoubled.  People began appearing on the streets, in doorways, on balconies, all of them busy talking, working, laughing, some even singing, a sound he’d never dreamt to hear from a human throat.  A girl dashed up the street with a basket of brightly colored flowers, her skirts a swirl of color rivaling the riot of hues cradled in her arms.  A man pulled along a cantankerous beast that was tall with a back humped high; it bawled a warning at anyone they passed.  Another pushed a two-wheeled cart mounded with dead sea creatures, his voice calling out in sing-song fashion, listing his wares.  A woman from a balcony shouted down, and he tossed a flat fish up to her waiting basket then caught the coin she threw down.

It was all too much for Lad to take in at once.

He came to the lower river, wide and slow-flowing and lined with stone quays.  Long, wide boats were tied to those piers with ropes thicker than his arm.  He watched as men loaded and unloaded goods, produce, fish, boxes, barrels and even livestock.  As he stood there, another barge worked its way up the river against the lazy current, men with long poles walking from bow to stern, then pulling up their poles and walking back to the bow in a never-ending succession.  Other craft, narrow and quick, darted up and down in zig-zagging patterns, propelled by the wind and single large triangular sail.

And the people...

Men, women, boys and girls of all shapes, shades, sizes, races and classes crowded the streets in a never-ending throng of humanity.  A tall figure in white on an even taller horse the color of slate rode up the center of the street at a canter; and as they passed Lad noticed the rider’s gracefully pointed ears and narrow, sweep-browed features.  He had heard of elves, and knew this was one by the description in his mind’s eye, but he had never hoped to see one.  A boy half Lad’s height hawked pots and pans from a cart pulled by a huge shaggy dog, but as he turned to Lad with a huge nose and a grin that was far too wide to be human, Lad realized that it was a gnome.

Lad continued on, working his way aimlessly from the busier portions of Twailin that bordered the rivers, through twisting residential streets that followed the contours of the land and finally into areas where business and trade pursued a more leisurely pace.  The buildings here were lighter, older.  Where cut stone girded the outer wall and the docks, plaster and slate lined these streets.  He walked in a daze, aware, but overwhelmed by his surroundings.  Finally, as the sun climbed halfway to its zenith, his stomach made his first decision for him.  As he was walking past a wide drive that opened into the turning yard of an inn, the scents of well-cooked food struck him, and his stomach growled loudly.

The inn was three floors, the bottom one of cut stone, the top two of white-washed plaster, with a roof of slate.  To the left of the huge turning yard stood a barn of wooden planks painted red, and to the right were a well with a long watering trough, a row of hitching posts and a low coop.  A flock of tuft-footed chickens pecked around the yard; the rooster looked at Lad sidelong, then scurried off after a hen.  A man of immense girth stood on the inn’s lowest step, talking with another who stood before a box-wagon with the stylized heads of a pig and a cow on the side.  The two were talking in a language that Lad could barely understand; it concerned cuts and marbling and corn-fed versus grain-fed.  As he walked carefully forward, the smaller man finally threw up his hands and disappeared into his wagon.  He came out with a huge side of meat balanced on one shoulder, and two legs of mutton tied together at the shank over the other.