Weapon of Flesh (37 page)

“Good!”  He started to grab his uniform jacket, then stopped as he noticed that it was still pitch black outside his window.  “What’s the hour, Sergeant?”

“Oh, about two glasses before first light.”

“So early?  Hmph.”  He put his coat down.  He’d started drafting the letters just after midnight, and had finished most of them before exhaustion and sorrow had taken him.  “Well, put on a pot of blackbrew and get a squad together.  I’m going to finish these tonight even if it’s the death of me.”

“Yessir.”  The sergeant noticed the letters on the captain’s desk and his broad shoulders slumped.  “How many, if you don’t mind me askin’, Sir?”

“Besides the two targets?  Ten.”  He sat down and straightened the papers.  “Ten good men, Sergeant.  And we’re going to find the murdering bastard who killed them and string him up by his innards!”

“Yessir!”

The sergeant turned and left his office, and Captain Norwood returned to his letters.  He had his doubts about this informant.  What would an innkeeper know of the murders, let alone who was committing them?  But the maneuver might serve to flush the quarry into the open.  Even more important, it might bring whoever was ordering these murders out of the slimy hole he lived in long enough for Captain Norwood to put a sword through his liver.

He sharpened his quill and tried to think of a kind way to tell a wife that her husband was never coming home.

 Chapter
XXII

B
lack cloaks and steel whirled in blurring entropy.

Dagger met sword, turning the stroke that would have taken his life, then darted in like a striking snake.  His target twisted away, sword arcing through an intricate series of feints before it struck again.  Steel met steel once more in three sharp blows before both adversaries broke off, circling, watching for weakness.

He let his foot land on a patch of blood-dampened stone and slipped minutely.

The sword slashed without pause, but the slip had been a feint, and he flipped over the sweeping stroke, both daggers stabbing.  One was deflected.  The other was not, and the tip pierced flesh before the target twisted away.

“Three to one!” said the thin figure standing well to the side, ignored by both combatants.

They squared off, his opponent breathing heavily and protecting his left side where the dagger had struck for the third and most telling stroke.  Blood, dark and sweet, dripped steadily from the man’s elbow.

The scuff of a boot from the open hallway behind him snapped his attention away from the sword he faced.

“Hold!”

The sword’s tip dropped, and the blademaster quickly clamped a hand upon his bleeding arm.

“Forgive me, Grandfather.”  Mya bowed as he turned and advanced upon her.  “I did not mean to interrupt your bout.”

“Of course you did, Mya.”  He put his daggers away and took one cleansing breath that returned his heart to its steady slow beat.  “I know very well that you are quite capable of moving silently.  The discrete noise you made with your foot was intentional, well timed and politely executed.  Next time just clear your throat and stop putting on pretences.”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

“What’s that you’ve got?” he asked, nodding to the bundle of black silk she cradled in her arms.  “The boy’s clothing?”

“I, uh...”  She peered past him at the tall blademaster who was lashing a quick bandage around his left arm.  She ignored the Grandfather’s valet, since the man knew more of the guild’s private affairs than Mya ever would.

“You may speak freely, Mya.  He is a Kossnhir apprentice.”  She swallowed visibly, a common response to meeting a blademaster of Koss Godslayer; they had their tongues cut out at the age of eight to prevent them from divulging the training secrets of their cult.

“It was the boy’s clothing.”  She held out the sodden shirt in one bloody hand, and he noticed that there was also blood on her neck and shoulder.  “It’s little more than a rag now.  That’s why I need to talk to you.  Your weapon was injured last night.”

“How badly?”  He felt a chill of worry. 
Injured
,
she said
,
not killed.  Not so soon.  Not yet
!

“Would have killed him if he wasn’t held together with more magic than muscle.”

There was something in her tone that the Grandfather didn’t like.  He wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but there were feelings beneath that sharp wit and hard exterior.  How troublesome.

“He took two arrows.  I didn’t know about the first until he told me this morning.  He’d taken it out himself.  The second he couldn’t remove without killing himself, so he just came back here.  How he made it over the wall is beyond me.”

“You removed it?”

“I cut it out of him.”  She fetched the broad head of a crossbow bolt from her pocket and held it out for him.  “I had to dig this out of his spleen before he would stop bleeding.”

“Interesting.”  He took the arrowhead, turning it over in his hand.  There was still blood and tissue stuck to the barbed wedge of iron.  “And he is recovered?”

“Aside from some weakness from losing about half of his blood, yes.”  She smiled crookedly, something he found oddly irritating.  “He’s doing his exercises and eating like a starved cloud cat.  He’ll probably be fine by tonight.”

“Good.”  He started to turn back to his own morning exercises then noticed the impatient shuffle in her stance.  “Was there something else, Mya?”

“There is, Master, but I’m not sure how to say it.”  She bit her lip and shrugged.  “I don’t know if it’s important, or if it will anger you.”

“Telling me something is amiss, then not telling me what it is, will surely anger me.”  His hand itched for his dagger, but killing Mya was not a good idea right now.  Her reconnaissance of the added security measures of the Royal Guard had been flawless and invaluable.  If not for her efforts, it was very likely that his weapon
would
have died.  “I will not hold you responsible for the bad news you bear, Mya.  Your skills are far too valuable for me to waste in a fit of temper.”

“Yes, Grandfather.”  She steadied herself visibly and continued.  “Your weapon is very near the breaking point, Master.”

“Near the breaking point?  What do you mean?  You said he was healed.”

“Physically he is healed, Master.  His mind, however, is damaged, and I do not know if that will heal.”

“His mind?  That’s impossible, Mya.  The magic prevents him from feeling anything.  I made sure of that.”

“I don’t doubt it, Grandfather, but there is something moving within him.  I think it’s because he was exposed to others.  He’s learned what others feel, and his curiosity has caused him to expect it in himself.  He’s been told that killing is bad, so he does not want to kill, but he’s forced to follow our orders.  He doesn’t
feel
, but he knows he should, and that is causing a conflict that’s inflicting a kind of pain that the magic doesn’t prevent.”

“Do you think this pain is effecting his efficiency?”  If the weapon was showing weakness, the longevity of the Grandfather’s project could be severely curtailed.  Many plans had been put into motion that hinged upon the pressure being put to bear with his new weapon.  If the pressure eased, the plans would crumble like a house of cards.

“It’s not his efficiency that worries me, Grandfather, but his sanity.  He does not wish to live, but he’s compelled to continue.  He begged me last night to let him die.”  She looked at the bloody shreds of silk in her hand and shrugged.  “He can’t even hate me for saving his life.  The magic won’t let him.”

“I worry more for you than my weapon, Mya.”  Her eyes snapped up to his, wary of some taunt or mocking jab.  “The weapon is just that.  Remember, he is a made thing, like this dagger.”  He produced the blade from the folds of his cloak and raised it for her to see.  “Would this blade feel differently if it were used to kill a man or a dog?  I think not.”  The blade vanished in the blink of an eye, and he smiled at the effect the sudden motion had on her.  She still feared him, which was as it should be.  The moment she no longer feared him, she would have to die.

“The boy is not a dagger, Master,” she said evenly, bowing and backing away a step.  “Perhaps only in that he has a mind and the dagger does not, but that is the crux of the problem.”  She paused, obviously choosing her next words with the utmost care.  “Is there no way the schedule could be postponed a day, simply to allow him to recover?”

“Wheels have been put into motion that cannot be stopped, Mya.  The schedule must remain inviolate.”

“Very well, Master.”  She turned to go, then stopped and looked back at him, her eyes admirably emotionless in their scrutiny.  “He’s going to crack.  I don’t know when, but he will, eventually.  Then, magic or no, both of us will have to start watching our backs for daggers.”

He watched her go, resisting the compulsion to put a dagger between her shoulder blades.  Her questioning of his prudence was more than enough reason to kill her, but her utter conviction told him that she was being honest with him, something he valued almost as much as her loyalty.  There was still enough fear in her to keep her in line, but that appeared to be waning.  She did not leave in the direction of her quarters, as he suspected she would, but back down into the interrogation chamber.  Back down to his weapon.  He clenched his jaw rhythmically for more than a minute before he turned back to his exercises.  He drew his daggers and wondered which of his weapons would have to be disposed of first.

Exclamations of surprise and alarm rang through the kitchen door from the common room.  Before Forbish even had a chance to think, his largest cleaver was in his hand. 
If those damned cutthroats are back, I’ll show them what for!
he raged inwardly as he pounded through the swinging door.

“Here now, you --”

He came up short at the sight of six royal guardsmen standing at the ready in the common room.  Their hands were on the hilts of their swords, their faces grim as death.  And all of their eyes were on him.

“Forgive me, M’lord Captain!” he spouted, recognizing the insignia on the leader’s collar.  He bowed low, putting the cleaver aside.  His mind raced for a reason why Royal Guardsmen would be in the
Tap and Kettle
; it had been hard enough to get a constable to pay a visit when they’d been harassed by Urik and his goons.  But his heart knew the answer even if his mind did not, and it leapt into his throat at the prospect of whom they sought.  “I heard shouts, and we’ve had trouble of late with ruffians.”

“Rest easy, good innkeeper,” the broad-shouldered captain said, his smile strained with fatigue or pain.  Something dire lurked behind the eyes of the gray-haired man, something that Forbish was quite positive he wanted no part of.  “We’ve just come to ask some questions.  There’s no trouble here.”

“Questions?”  He gathered Wiggen to him with a wave of his hand, and he felt her tremors of fear as he drew her close.  Josie glared at them all, her caustic tongue muttering curses.  “What questions, Captain?”