Weapon of Flesh (18 page)

T
he owner of the
Golden Cockerel
backed through the door into the pub’s only private room, balancing the heavy tray as his lips moved in a constant muttering curse.  He stopped when one of the hulking thugs that guarded the door waved a foot-long dirk under his nose.

“You best learn to knock, Barkeep.”

“And you best learn manners, Boy.”  The barman moved into the room, ignoring the thug’s grim mien.  “I was servin’ yer master’s master in this pub when you wasn’t even a bulge in yer pappy’s drawers.”

“You got a mouth, old man,” the thug growled, taking a step.  He stopped in his tracks, however, with one look from Mya.

“Leave off, Donik.”  Mya managed a thin smile for the barman, motioning toward the least-cluttered portion of the broad table that she was using as a desk.  “You can put it there, Paxal, and thanks.”

“Aye, Miss Mya.”  He put the heavy tray down.

There was enough food and blackbrew for her and her two bodyguards here, and the
Golden Cockerel
didn’t even serve food.  He must have gone to the cafe on the corner and bought all this.  For the first time in a week, she thought of the cost to her landlord of this impromptu invasion she’d spearheaded into his domain.  She’d been just a tenant to the man, taking an occasional drink in the bar before climbing the stairs to her one-room flat, and she’d only ever been called “Mya” or “Girl” by him in those years.  Now, all of a sudden, he called her “Miss” and was fetching her food day and night.  This was costing him dearly.

“You’re keeping track of the reckoning, I trust,” she said before he turned away, taking up the blackbrew kettle and pouring a cup.

“There’s no reckoning, Miss.  It’s been seen to.”

She wondered for a moment just how much Paxal knew, then dismissed the entire matter.  If Paxal said it had been taken care of, she could rest assured that it had been.  She’d already gone back to her maps and lists of names, sipping the life-giving blackbrew and rubbing her tired eyes, when there was a knock at the door.  She looked up with a silent curse at the interruption, but immediately changed her outlook at the sight of Jax and the gaily-clad man with him.

“Master Hensen, of the Moneylender’s Guild,” Jax announced, his tone flat.  He’d been utterly stone-faced with her for the two days he’d been here. That he was angry with her was obvious, but Jax was a professional and kept his feelings to himself.  That was good, because Mya had more than enough on her hands trying to locate the Grandfather’s weapon.

“Master Hensen,” she said in greeting, standing and waving at a chair and the tray that Paxal had just brought.  The man may well have been a Master in the Moneylender’s Guild, but he was also a high-ranking boss in the Thieves Guild, and Mya needed his help desperately.  “Please sit and have something to eat and a cup of blackbrew.”

“Delighted, Miss Mya,” he said with a glittering smile.  He swept his crimson cloak aside, straightened his green velvet doublet and sat, accepting a cup from her hand.

“Cream?”

“Please.”

“There is sugar or honey as well, here.  Please feel free.”

“Thank you.”  He put two heaping teaspoons of sugar into his cup and swirled the syrupy brew.

“Master Hensen,” she began, watching him sip daintily, “we are all friends here, so I will speak bluntly.”

“Please do, Miss Mya.”  He put the cup down and smiled again, his eyes narrowing with hidden knowledge.  “Our two... organizations have always worked closely together.”

“Quite closely,” she agreed.  It was true that the Thieves’ and Assassins’ guilds worked together, but they were often bitter rivals as well, and turf wars between the two had spilled blood in the streets and alleys of Twailin more than once.  She had no doubt that any help she got from Hensen would cost her dearly.  And she also knew that she could, under no circumstances, allow him to know the value or origin of the Grandfather’s weapon.  But people like Hensen had ways of knowing when they were being lied to.  She must be careful in her deceptions.

“The plain fact is that I require your aid in a rather delicate situation.”  That much was true, at least.

“From the look of it,” he said, pointedly eying the maps and lists littering the table, “you are searching for something, or someone.”

“Your powers of observation are uncontested.  As a matter of fact, we seek a young man.”  She produced the sketch of Lad; it had been enhanced with colored chalk and fine graphite pencils by a master artist, and the likeness was flawless.  “This is the closest rendering of his face that we have.”

“Hmmm, a lovely young man,” Hensen said with a raised eyebrow.  “Did he... steal something of yours, perhaps?”

“Nothing of the kind, Master Hensen.   He was to have served my Grandfather in some way, the details of which I am not privy to.  He has disappeared, but resides somewhere in the city we feel sure.”  She made a shooing motion as he handed back the sketch.  “Please, keep it.  I have many copies.”

“And just how long have you been looking for this young man?”  Hensen rolled the parchment and placed it carefully into a pocket in the lining of his cloak.

“Nine days.”

“And he has eluded you for that long?”  One immaculate eyebrow arched delicately.  “He must be skilled in the art of evasion.”

“Which is even more curious, Master Hensen, for we doubt that the young man even knows that he is being sought.  As you know, we are not unskilled in the art of finding people, even when they do not wish to be found.”  She sipped her blackbrew, ordering her thoughts carefully.  She could not give too much away, but the more Hensen knew, the more he could help her.

“Indeed,” he agreed, waiting patiently.

“Our entire network has been alerted to watch for him.  We feel sure that he must be working somewhere, a stable or warehouse, somewhere out of open view.  Else we would have found him in short order.”

“And you want us to apprehend this young man for you?”

“Not at all, Master Hensen.  We simply wish help in locating him, without his knowledge would be best.  We will bring him in.”

“Is he so dangerous?”

She paused long enough in thinking of a proper answer that she knew she may as well have said yes, but instead, for the sake of propriety if nothing else, she said, “The depth of his skill is not known to me, Master Hensen, but it would be best if he was not confronted directly, for his own safety, if nothing else.”

“This young man must be very valuable to your Grandfather, Miss Mya.”  Avarice, pure and clear, glinted in Hensen’s eyes.

“His precise value is also unknown to me, Master Hensen.  But if the lengths to which we seek him are any indication, I surmise that your estimate is correct.”

“Well, we must help you find him, then, and with all alacrity!”  Hensen stood and Mya followed suit.

“Thank you, Master Hensen,” she said, taking his proffered hand in a perfunctory clasp.  “Your usual fee for locating missing persons, I assume?”

“Quite.”  He swirled his cloak around himself and made for the door.  “I shall send a messenger when the young man is located, Miss Mya.  You need only await my word.”

“I will, Master Hensen.”  When the door closed behind him, she muttered, “Cocky bastard,” barely loud enough for her own ears to hear.

She stood silently, weighing every word that had been said for several breaths.  Finally she took her seat and sipped her blackbrew, perusing the maps once again.

“Permission to speak, Junior Journeyman?”

Mya looked up to find Jax standing stiffly in front of the table, his hands clenched behind him.  She could see the strain in him and wondered just how much he hated her for passing him by so suddenly.

“Of course, Jax.  What is it?”

“Hensen is no fool.  He knows that the boy is valuable.  He will capture him and hold him ransom.  He will name his price, and we will risk war if we do not pay it.”

“Give me
some
credit, Jax.  Hensen may very well be a genius, but he is an ignorant one.”  Mya took a scone from the tray and bit off a corner, chewing thoughtfully while Jax squirmed in discomfort.  “He doesn’t know how dangerous the weapon is.  If he doesn’t take the hint I gave him and tries to apprehend the boy, all we’ll have to do is follow the trail of dead thieves straight to him.”

“You play a dangerous game, Mya,” he said, inclining his head in a mock bow.

“We all play the same game, Jax.  We’ve been playing it since the day we joined the Guild.  Some of us just
know
how dangerous it is.”  She briefly searched her sheaf of papers and recovered a tightly bound scroll.  “Take this to Brin in The Sprawls and tell her I want an answer by highsun.”

“At once, Junior Journeyman.”  Jax took the scroll and went away.  All Mya could wish was that she could make all her problems go away so easily.

“Hey!  What do you --”

“Stop that, you!”

“What now?”  Forbish muttered, dusting flour from his hands and rounding the kitchen table for the common room.  Josie sounded angry.  All they needed was another problem with one of the guests.  He shouldered the door aside, drawing breath to settle the squabble, but a fist roughly the size of a tankard of ale came out of nowhere and met with the side of his head.  The blow sent him to the floor, but the same huge hand grasped his tunic and lifted him bodily.

“Well, here’s Fat Man Forbish himself!” a voice thundered in his face.  A smaller hand slapped him twice and the stars that were swimming in his vision cleared.  Forbish knew immediately that he was in trouble.

“Urik!” he said, still dazed, but able to take in the mayhem that had overrun the common room.

Josie struggled in the grasp of another ruffian and one of the two guests that had been taking a late breakfast was picking himself up from the floor.  There were four of the thugs in all, the huge brute that held Forbish, one that held Josie, another that was threatening his guests, and Urik, their boss.  Forbish knew this one, and that alone was enough to confirm that this was no ordinary trouble.

“That’s right Fat Man.  Urik the Knife.”  The man drew his namesake and brandished it before Forbish’s face.  “And this is your wake-up call.”

“What’s this about?” one of the guests asked, his voice shaking with impotent rage.  All four of the thugs were armed and they would take what they wanted, that much was obvious.

“Unpaid taxes!” Urik bawled over his shoulder at the two men.  “This place is under new management!  Now show these two the door, Davish.  They look like they need to take a walk.”

“You heard him,” the ruffian said, waving a short sword under their noses for emphasis.  “Take a walk.  Come back fer supper, and you can settle up accounts.”

The two men needed little encouragement.  That these were not the Duke’s representatives was obvious, but being merchants themselves, they knew that there were other kinds of payments that the business owners of Twailin had to pay.  The two merchants left, their departure accompanied by the raucous laughter of the four thugs.

At that point, Forbish heard the thump of the kitchen door swinging into the back of the hulking brute holding him, and a startled, “What the --” that could only be one person.

“Run, Wiggen!” he shouted, thinking only to save his daughter from the horrors that he knew were to come, horrors of which he knew she had already seen too many.

The crash of crockery hitting the floor and a scream as the back door banged open told him that she had fled.  Two more screams and a man’s coarsely shouted curse told him that he’d failed.  Forbish struggled to break the grip on him.  He finally got a look at the brute and knew why he felt so weak against the hold.  The man towered over him.  His skin was the color of a rotten egg yolk and two short tusks protruded from between black lips.  The man had ogre blood in his veins and the grip felt like a vise was being tightened upon his arms.

The kitchen door was slammed open and the thrashing, screaming, cursing bundle of skirts that was Wiggen was carried bodily into the room by the thug that had been waiting by the back door.

“Lookie what I caught!” the man crowed, grabbing a handful of hair and silencing Wiggen’s struggles with a jerk.  He had four parallel welts running from his ear to the tip of his jaw that were beginning to leak blood.  Her struggles had not been totally ineffectual.  “You remember this one, don’t ya, Urik?”

“Oh, indeed I do!”  Urik stepped around Forbish and up to the terrified girl.  “But I see she hasn’t completely gotten over our last visit, has she?”  He traced the scar on the side of her face then jerked his hand back from her gnashing teeth.

“Let her go, Urik!”  Forbish was pleased that his voice didn’t show how terrified he was.  “I’ve got your damned money.  Let her go and you can have it.”

“You don’t understand, Fat Man,” the thug said, turning from Wiggen to Forbish.  “Money’s not the point any more; you broke the rules.  Rules that we had to teach you once before, and you still broke ’em.”  He waved his dagger in front of Forbish’s face for emphasis.  “The last time we had to teach you cost you a son and left your girl here marked for life.  Though she don’t look too much the worse for wear.”  He eyed Wiggen over his shoulder and grinned maliciously.