Weapon of Flesh (24 page)

“You will use a two-phase technique to acquire the weapon, Mya.”  She hid her surprise that she was being put in charge of the hunt.  Jarred was her senior by two ranks, though they answered to different masters.  Her being put in direct command over him was a breach in the chain of rank, but the Grandfather’s word was law.  The door closed and was relocked amid the clatter of protective machinery.  “Reconnaissance followed by stealthy assault.”

“Yes, Grandfather.”  They both followed as he walked briskly back toward the sparring room.

“Choose your best man for the reconnaissance, Jarred.  His goal is to discern where the weapon sleeps, if he sleeps.”

“Yes, Grandfather.” 

“If, and only if, that information is gleaned, you will choose four of your best Blades to accompany you and Mya to claim the prize.”  They followed him into the sparring room, and Mya noticed that the valet stood exactly where they had left him.  “Choose your people for stealth and skill with envenomed weaponry, Jarred.  Mya, you will use a single drop of that mixture on each of the weapons, no more.”

“Yes, Grandfather,” they both said.

“Have a care that only one dose is administered.  The effects are immediate and overwhelming, but too much can kill.”  He leveled a glare at the two that would have soured milk.  “If the weapon is killed, using the rest of that mixture on yourselves would probably be the best course of action.  It would be much less painful than my wrath.  Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

“Good.  Now, go, and do not fail me.”

They were ushered silently out by the valet, but Mya noticed the smug smile on the man’s lips as he held open the door.  She suppressed the urge to wipe that smile off with the edge of her dagger.

 Chapter
XV

L
ad stepped from the front porch of the
Tap and Kettle
and breathed deeply of the night air.  The scents of the city filled his mind in a heady swirl.  Each flavor, the bitter tang of the tanner’s vats three blocks to the east on Highwall Street, the pungent mingling of blood and offal from the slaughterhouse farther south in The Sprawls, and the lighter aroma of the herbalist’s shop a block to the southeast, lent its own hint to city’s distinctive bouquet.

Lad smiled, a thing he had learned from Wiggen to do when something pleased his senses.  The city of Twailin had come to please him as he, in turn, grew to know it.  He had explored much of it in his nocturnal jaunts: all of Eastmarket, where the inn resided and across the bridge to Westmarket.  He had also ventured south to The Sprawls with its rows of cheap tenements and the South Dock District with its wide stone quays that lined the river, and the river sailors who drank and wenched in the bars lining the wharves.  He’d even ventured into Barleycorn Heights and West Crescent, with their palatial estates, high-walled manors and expensive shops.  He had not yet gone across the river to the north into the quarters of Hightown and The Bluff.  The Duke’s palace dominated the promontory of The Bluff and overlooked the entire city.  It was the highest point of land within the city walls, a fitting position for the governing ruler.

Perhaps I shall venture across Narrow Bridge and into that quarter tonight
, he thought, starting across the courtyard toward the barn. 
Perhaps my destiny lies among the royalty that rule this wonderful place.
  For Lad had truly grown to believe that he was made to live in such a place, to use his skills among the variety of humanity that now surrounded him.

Yes
, he thought, lengthening his strides in eagerness.  Today had been a full and interesting day, though Wiggen had not, as he had hoped, accompanied him to the barn for another kiss.  That was another thing that brought a smile to his lips, though he knew not why.  There was a danger and a yearning to that simple pressing of lips, something that challenged the magic that infused him, something that caused his blood to race and the heat to rise in him.  He pushed the memory aside, refocusing his thoughts. 
Tonight will be the night I venture into the quarter of the royals
.  But when he stepped foot into the barn, his plans for the evening suddenly changed.

Something wasn’t right.

Had this been the first time Lad had entered the barn, he might not have noticed, but he was familiar with the place now.  He knew its sounds and scents.  He knew the patter of the mice that nested in the hayloft as they scampered across the rafters.  He knew the odors of dung and horse sweat, cloying but not unpleasant.  He knew the cooing of the mourning doves at daybreak and the chirping of the crickets in the evening.

But now those familiar sounds and scents had changed: the mice were not moving, hunkered in their den of rotting hay and leaves, the crickets were silent, unheard of for this time of night, and the scents of horse and hay were mingled with those of men.

Not just men
, he thought, letting his eyes scan the darkness as he breathed in the air of the barn. 
Many men, and at least one woman
, he decided, taking a cautious step toward the first stall.

All of the horses were in their stalls, fed, watered and reasonably complacent, though one of the mares stomped a foot at him, startled that he appeared without her hearing his approach.  He soothed her with a pat and a few soft words, then stepped back into the wide isle that ran the length of the barn.  He stood and listened, closed his eyes and strained to hear that which makes no sound, to sense the darkness, to feel the air.

A near-silent creak of leather.  A hint of a breath being taken in too quickly.  A heartbeat too loud to be muffled by the sinew, bone and flesh surrounding it.  The scuff of a finger on wood.  The click of metal against bone.  At least five people were hidden in the dark, out of sight, waiting.

The memory of a thousand ambushes flashed through his mind, all orchestrated by his maker to prepare him for this moment.  He stood in the darkness, ready, his senses taut, his muscles relaxing into the state of preparedness that had been drilled into him by masters of flesh and mind.

Lad smiled, and spoke.

“I am ready for you.”  He heard two quickly indrawn breaths that told him his taunt had scored.  The tactic was simple and time tested: when an ambush is discovered, impart that knowledge to the ambushers and reap the benefit of their shattered morale.  “To those who seek me harm, I tell you this:  If you leave this place now, I will let you go unharmed.  If you stay, you will die by my hand.”  And he meant it, for he had learned from Wiggen that killing was wrong.  He did not want to kill if he didn’t have to.

His answer came as he expected it would, with an attack.

The sound of air being puffed out of a long tube reached his ears a bare instant before the dart would have struck home, but Lad had not lied when he said that he was ready.

He moved.

The technique was called displacement, taught to him by one of his trainers as a defensive measure against an attack from concealment.  It involved moving every portion of one’s body from its previous position in the assumption that whoever is shooting at you is aiming for where you are, not where you will be.  The twisting leap took him ten feet to his left, and the dart that would have pierced his flesh stood quivering in one of the stall doors.  The mare in the stall huffed and stomped her foot.

Lad took a half second to analyze the weapon, a slim feathered dart from a blowgun, and calculate the angle from which it had come.  His next move took him in a bounding leap to the man’s perch above the tack room.  The utter surprise on the assassin’s features lasted only a second.  His hand was reaching for another dart, but shifted to the dagger at his belt.  His fingers never touched the hilt.  The heel of Lad’s hand impacted upon the bridge of the man’s nose, sending shards of shattered bone into his brain.  He fell dead to the floor of the barn, surprise and shock still etched upon his face.

Lad did not pause to gloat, but moved again.  Three more shots, one dart and two tiny arrows followed his tumbling progress across the barn.  Two missed, and one he caught and flung back at his attacker.  He heard the arrow strike flesh, even as he vanished into the shadows.  It surprised him when he heard another body strike the floor of the barn.  He had surmised that the missiles were envenomed, but few poisons acted so quickly that a man struck would drop senseless in the span of a few heartbeats.  He would have to take care, lest he fall prey to that venom.

“Two of you lie dead,” he said, taking care to cast his voice to one side. The jittery mare reared in her stall, neighing loudly at the scent of blood.  “How many more must die?  Leave now, and live.”  He was answered only with silence.

He moved through the shadows like blackened quicksilver flowing among the cracks and crevices of darkness, silent and deadly.  The other horses were nervous now, the scent of blood and strange sounds arousing their instincts, but he heard the scuff of a boot through their shuffling hooves.  His quarry was moving.

The edge of the loft was above him now, and he knew that at least two of them hid among the bales and sacks stacked there.  There was one sure way to draw them out, but there was risk in it.  There was no fear in him, but there was concern, for if he fell he would see his new friends no longer, and they would be in danger with these assassins about.  Weighing the risks carefully, he made a decision.

Lad leapt from the darkness like a cat, the ledge of the loft caught in a grip like iron as he flung his legs up and thrust himself into a whirling, somersaulting loop.  The danger was that once he was airborne, his trajectory was predictable.  He had little doubt that his stalkers would send more envenomed darts his way, but he was ready for them.

Two missed by wide margins.

Two did not.

He landed in a crouch, holding a dart by its fletching and a short arrow between the toes of his right foot.  The latter he cast aside, for it interfered with his movement, the former he kept.

He heard the two in the loft fumbling to reload their weapons, and moved.  The first crouched behind a hay bale which, when Lad kicked it, sent him sprawling.  The dart in Lad’s hand found a sheath in the assassin’s neck before he was forced to move again by more flying missiles.  A woman moved from hiding amid several sacks, her blowgun cast aside in favor of two long fighting daggers.

Lad deflected another missile from an assassin hidden in the rafters as the woman lunged to the attack.  One blade he evaded easily, the other was immobilized by his grip on her wrist which he twisted as his foot lashed out at her midriff.  The woman actually surprised him when she flipped with the twisting arm, neatly evaded the kick, and aimed the other dagger at his wrist.  He released his grip, snatched the other wrist as it passed and planted a firm kick into her armpit.  Ribs splintered under his foot, and the shoulder popped out of joint.  He evaded another tiny arrow as she fell gasping to the floor.

He vanished into the shadows, pausing to reacquire his targets.

The one he’d pierced with the dart lay still, barely breathing.  The woman was curled in a protective ball gasping for breath, her consciousness waning.  From the sounds of scuffing leather and the number of attacks he’d evaded, there were still two assassins out there, though they remained hidden, even to his senses.  He gauged their positions by sound, and moved through the shadows, calculating the best angle of attack.

“Two of you remain,” he said, casting his voice afar.  “I offer you another chance to save yourselves.  Leave now, and you will remain alive.”

He really didn’t expect an answer, let alone one of assent.

“I yield!” a woman said from the darkness.  She was among the rafters and well hidden.  “I’ll have your word that no harm will come to me if I move into the open.”

“You have it,” he answered immediately.

He heard her move, careful steps of soft leather on wood.  She dropped down from the rafters to the top of the tack room, then to the floor of the barn.  He risked a glance, and saw that she stood in the open, her hands away from her sides.  She still bore weapons, but he hadn’t asked her to disarm.