Weapon of Vengeance (Weapon of Flesh Trilogy) (26 page)

Norwood checked his watch. 
Perfect.
  Picking
a ledger from the shelf at random, he brought it to the huge desk that
dominated one corner, facing the center of the room.  Two ornate lamps stood atop
it for nighttime work, their bases of burnished malachite and gold gleaming in
the sunlight.  Norwood slid into the comfortable chair and opened the ledger. 
Something warm and wet nudged his knee from beneath the desk.

“Good boy,” he whispered, patting the mastiff’s huge
head. 
Close indeed
!  “Stay.  Quiet.”

Tango settled back down.  That he had remained
perfectly still beneath the desk was a testament to his superb training.  All
was ready.  The trap was set.  Now he had nothing to do but wait. 

The plan was simple.  Norwood was the bait,
seemingly alone and vulnerable.  He wanted to take the assassin alive for
questioning, and with the two mastiffs and Tamir close by, he had a chance.  He
just had to keep the man from using magic to escape.  The captain dipped his
fingers into his jacket pocket and withdrew the fine golden chain that Woefler
had given him.  It felt cool and reassuring.  He wrapped one end around his
hand to keep a good hold on it.

The hard part would be waiting.

And not letting him touch me
…

Norwood had no idea what other magic the assassin
could wield.  He was betting his life that the killer wanted the captain’s
death to appear natural, as he had Patino’s.  In that case, he’d have to get
close enough to touch him.  Of course, if he blinked in with a dozen men
wielding poisoned blades, Norwood wouldn’t have a chance. 

No, he’ll try the same way he
tried before.  He’ll use magic.
 
In Norwood’s experience, killers didn’t generally change their methods unless
forced to.  He knew the man was mortal, as vulnerable as anyone to a dagger or
sword.  If it came down to life or death, the captain would have no qualms
about putting a blade through the assassin’s heart.

Norwood pretended to skim over the neat columns of
numbers, notations, expenditures, and names.  It was all a sham, but the killer
couldn’t know that.  He flipped a page, ears straining for the scuff of a boot
on the hardwood floor, an indrawn breath, a rustle of cloth.

Waiting
…

Norwood strived to stay alert, to listen.  He
thought to call for blackbrew, but rejected the idea.  The assassin could pop
in at any moment, and the captain didn’t want a servant in the room when it
happened.

He’s going to come for me
. 
Any moment
…

His eyes blurred over the meaningless numbers and
notations, expenditures for supplies, equipment, wages, and a thousand other
details that kept the estate running.

Waiting
…

The sun crept across the carpet as the morning wore
on.  It was getting difficult to keep his eyes open, and his mind kept drifting
off to errant thoughts. 
If I don’t pay attention, I’ll end up asleep on the
desk
.  He flipped another page.

A light puff of breeze touched the hairs on the back
of his neck, and he reached back to scratch.

Breeze
?

The windows were closed.

A flicker of motion reflected in the gleaming
chimney of one of the desk lamps; a flutter of crimson.

Tango growled.

Norwood lunged up and kicked the chair backward,
gratified by the dull thud and the hiss of pain that followed.  “Tam!” he
bellowed as he twisted around to face his attacker.  Too close—a hand blurred
by inches from his face, a pearly glow trailing vaporous wisps.  Norwood
whipped the golden chain at the assassin’s arm, but it merely flicked off the
man’s shoulder.

Damn
!

The assassin kicked the chair aside and lunged, his
outstretched hand still glowing.  Norwood’s backside bumped up against the
desk.  Drawing his dagger, he realized with a sinking heart that the short
blade couldn’t keep that deadly hand from touching him.  He heard Tamir’s yell
from the hallway, and knew his sergeant would arrive too late.

Tango smashed into the back of Norwood’s legs,
toppling the captain backward over the desk.  The mastiff leapt up from his
hiding place, slobbery jaws wide enough to grasp the assassin’s entire head and
strong enough to crush it.

As Norwood landed amidst the shards of the shattered
lamps, an inarticulate cry escaped the assassin’s throat.  The captain rolled
to his feet to see Tango’s massive jaws gripping the cowl of the man’s robe. 
Cloth tore as they tumbled backward, Tango landing firmly atop.  Dagger in one
hand and the golden chain in the other, Norwood vaulted over the desk.  Behind
him, the door burst open, but he couldn’t look back.  He had to get the chain
around the assassin before he vanished, but there was a huge dog in the way.

“Tango!  Off!”

Too late…  A pearly glow flashed around the enraged
canine, and Tango went limp.

The assassin heaved the dog off and rolled to his
feet, the tattered hood of his cloak pulled away to reveal swarthy features and
dark, close-cropped hair streaked with gray.  He spoke a word that shivered the
air, and dark tendrils of magic flowed outward from his hand.

 “Not this time, you bastard!”  Norwood flung the
chain at the man’s arm.  The gold links wrapped around his assailant’s wrist
twice, sticking like glue.  The dark tendrils faded, and he there he stood. 
“Now, you son of a—”  Norwood dropped his dagger and drew his sword; he needed
a longer weapon to keep the lethal magic at bay.

The assassin jerked his arm, but the enchanted links
held fast.  The end that Norwood gripped cut into his hand, but he refused to
let go.  As the tip of Norwood’s sword cleared the scabbard, the assassin spoke
again, a single meaningless word.

Darkness flashed through the room like a sheet of
black lightning.  Norwood’s heart skipped a beat, and the sword drooped in his
nerveless grasp.  Ice water filled his veins, despair unlike anything he’d ever
felt gripping him.  Every dark moment of his life revisited him in the span of
a heartbeat: every failure, every heartbreak, every defeat.  His knees quaked
and his muscles slacked.  He heard Tamir cry out, but he was too deafened by
his own anguish to understand.

The assassin jerked his arm away, and the golden
chain cut across the back of the Norwood’s hand, wrenched free of his slack
grasp.  Backing away, the man peeled the chain from his forearm and cast it
aside.  Once again, vaporous black tendrils formed in his hand and began to
spread.

“No!”  Norwood wrenched his mind free from the pit
of despair and raised his sword.  Behind him, a deep growl sounded.

Brutus bowled him aside as he launched himself from
the top of the desk, jaws wide.  The dog plunged right through the swirling
darkness, scattering the vaporous magic like smoke on the wind, then crashed into
an ornate coatrack in the corner.  When the mists cleared, the assassin was
gone.

“Damn it to the Nine Hells!”  Norwood turned a wary
circle, lest the assassin pop right back in behind him, but the only other
person in the room was Tamir.  The sergeant looked more like he’d seen a ghost
than a killer.  With another curse, the captain snapped his sword back into his
scabbard.

“What in the hell
was
that, sir?”  Tamir’s
free hand clutched his chest.  “That…flash of darkness.  It felt like someone
grabbed my heart right out of my chest.”

“I don’t know, Sergeant.”  Norwood grimaced at the
shattered glass, scratched desk, and the ledger soaked in lamp oil.  So much
for his promise not to make a mess.  “I did, however, get a good look at him.”

A whine brought him around.  Brutus stood, head
down, mournfully nosing the still form of Tango.

“Damn it to hell.”  The captain knelt and pressed
his fingers into the dog’s warm flesh, but detected no pulse, no breath.  Tango
had saved his life, without a doubt, but had paid the ultimate price for his
loyalty.  Brutus whined again and nosed the corpse, then sat down and looked up
into Norwood’s face as if asking for him to fix things.  The captain scratched
the mastiff’s massive head.  “I’m sorry, boy.”

“What now, sir?” Tamir asked.

Norwood clenched his jaw and tried to think past the
lingering despair of the assassin’s magic.  Though Tango lay dead, and they had
failed to capture the assassin, his trap had actually worked in one respect.

“This case just got much bigger, Tam.”  Norwood bent
to retrieve the golden chain, and noticed the blood on the back of his hand
where the links had sliced into him.  “Our assassin knew exactly where and when
to find me.  We know one thing for sure now: there’s a spy in the Imperial
Palace.”  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  “We’re going to Tsing.”

“You’re
sure
, sir?”  Tamir worried his lower
lip and furrowed his brow.

“Yes, Sergeant.  I’m oath-bound to protect the Noble
House of Tsing.  That includes the Emperor himself.  If there’s a spy in the
Imperial Palace controlling that assassin, there’s an threat to His Majesty’s
safety.  I’ve got to go.”  Brutus nosed his hand, and he scratched him behind
the ears, trying to offer the poor beast some solace.  “Besides, the son of a bitch
killed my dog.  I’m going to put a sword through him for that, if nothing
else.”

“We’re coming into Farthane,” Lad said as they
passed the sign post.  “You wanted to stop?”

Mya looked up from her book.  She’d been quiet,
which wasn’t unusual, but her nervousness from this morning seemed to have
subsided.  “Yes.  Farthane’s one of Patino’s estates.  I sent Hunters to
Willamshire and Mountainview, but when you decided to go to Tsing early, I
figured we might as well stop on the way and ask some questions.”

He looked at her with furrowed brow.  “It’s just a
plantation.  Are they likely to know anything?”

“Maybe not, but there’s no harm in asking around.” 
She gave him an exasperated look that he’d learned to read long ago.  “You
did
tell me to look everywhere.  If Kiesha got out of Twailin, she might have come
here.”

“Good point.”  Lad peered out the carriage window as
they topped a low hill.  “It’s evidently a fair-sized village.”  Ahead in the
vale were a number of small buildings, homes, a granary, and a mill, aside from
the way-inn.  The manor house stood upon a nearby hill, large and white, with expansive
green swards, planted fields, and stone-fenced pastures dotted with white
flecks of sheep.

“Good.”  She put down her book. “The more people,
the less likely we are to draw attention.”

Lad rapped the roof of the carriage with the handle
of his walking stick.  “Stop at the inn for lunch.”

“Aye, sir!” the driver called down.

As the carriage rolled into Farthane village, Lad was
reminded of the first village he’d ever seen, the hamlet of Thistledown.  He
cast his mind back, remembering how ignorant he had been of the vagaries of
human interactions.  He hadn’t even known what money was, let alone the need of
it to pay for things like food.  It was shortly after that first disastrous
encounter with civilization that he met Mya.  She had ridden up on a tall gelding
and offered him a ride to Twailin, but his trained suspicion had told him to
refuse.

The image of her on her horse came to mind as if it
had been yesterday.  Her sweat-damped shirt had been half open, exposing the
swell of her high breasts as she leaned down to talk to him.  At the time he
hadn’t understood, but now it seemed obvious what she’d been trying to do. 
Even then, she’d been using enticement to get what she wanted.

Is she still trying to do that
?  He recalled her tattoo-clad
back and legs as she wound them in black cloth.  She could have waited until he
was out of the room to dress, but hadn’t.  Had she done that on purpose?  Was
she trying to seduce him?  If so, why?  A flutter in the pit of his stomach
betrayed his body’s undeniable response to the memory, but he ignored it.

The way-inn hove into view as the carriage passed
the mill.  The high, tiled roof fairly glowed in the midday sun.  In the
courtyard, figures bustled about tending horses and wagons, and trying to hitch
a team of recalcitrant mules to a huge wain mounded with cargo.