Weapon of Blood (3 page)

“Enough!”  Neera’s tone stifled their
rants like a snuffed candle.  “None of us are following the rules we all agreed
to five years ago, Horice.  I see only two options to help this situation,
cooperate or appoint a new guildmaster.”

“Fine!  I move that we vote to pick a new
leader of the Twailin Assassins Guild right now.”

“
Another
vote?”  Patrice slumped
in her seat, obviously disgusted.

“Seconded!” Youtrin said.

Neera’s eyes narrowed and her jaw muscles
bunched and writhed until Sereth thought her teeth might shatter.  There had
been numerous such votes, and none had passed.  The Master Alchemist always
sided with Mya on this issue, and Patrice generally voted with Neera.  Horice
and Youtrin voted together as if joined at the hip.  With Mya absent, the
likely result was a stalemate.

“Very well.  A quorum is present.  All in
favor of appointing a new guildmaster.”

Horice and Youtrin raised their hands; no
surprise there.  The corner of Neera’s mouth twitched in the hint of a smile.

“All opposed?”  Neera raised her hand and
looked to Patrice, but the Master Inquisitor did not raise her hand. 
“Patrice?”

The Inquisitor looked at her, then away. 
“I abstain.”

Sereth cocked an eyebrow in surprise. 
This was a switch.  Patrice wasn’t exactly thwarting the Master Alchemist, but
she wasn’t supporting her either.  Likewise, she wasn’t supporting Horice and
Youtrin. 
What the hells is she up to?

“The vote is two to one, Neera!  The
motion carries!  We select a new guildmaster!”

“I nominate Master Alchemist Neera.” 
Patrice glanced back to the older woman and smiled, then faltered when the Alchemist’s
lips remained pressed in a thin, hard line of displeasure.

Sereth squinted in confusion. 
What
just happened here?
  But before he could fathom a plausible reason for the Patrice’s
actions or Neera’s response, the Master Alchemist huffed and continued.

“
Before
we entertain nominations,
we need a new guildmaster’s ring.”

Sereth shuddered.  He remembered the
previous guildmaster’s ring all too well.  Prior to becoming Horice’s
bodyguard, he had served as the Grandfather’s assistant.  The other journeymen
had envied him for his position at the luxurious estate, currying the favor of
the guildmaster.  What they hadn’t known was that every dawn he had wondered if
he would survive until dusk.  The Grandfather had taken lives at a whim, and
tolerated no misstep or annoyance.  Obsidian woven with gold and enchanted with
powerful magics, the guildmaster’s ring ensured the wearer’s safety from all
others in the Twailin Assassins Guild, just as the masters’ rings protected their
wearers from those within their factions.  The rings were magically bound to
the blood contracts that all assassins signed when they were accepted into the
guild.

“We’ll all share equally in the ring’s
cost.”

“Agreed, but…”  Youtrin’s thick brow
furrowed, as if thinking too deeply pained him.  “I move that we don’t inform Mya
of this until after the new guildmaster is in place.  She didn’t help us make
this decision; I see no reason to inform her until it’s done.”

“Seconded!”  Horice flashed a wide grin
and gave Youtrin a nod of approval.  “At the least, it will prevent her from
squawking about it until after the fact.”

“All in favor?”

Surprisingly, in this if nothing else,
all four masters agreed.

They fear Mya
, Sereth thought, then amended his supposition,
or
her weapon.

“Very well.  I’ll contract a mage to
forge the ring and contact you when it’s finished.”  Neera raked the room with
a sardonic glare.  “Do try not to
kill
one another until it’s done.  Any
more business for the council?”

There was none.

“Very well.  This meeting is adjourned.”

The masters stood, and their bodyguards
moved to usher them out.  Patrice and Neera disappeared through the door that
led to the common room of the brothel, cheerful chatter and laughter reaching
Sereth’s ear’s until the door shut behind them.  Youtrin and Horice both turned
toward the exit through the back hall to the alley where their carriages
waited.  Sereth took his time plucking his master’s cloak from the rack beside
the door and draping it over the man’s shoulders.  As he’d hoped, the Enforcers
preceded them out the door.  Despite the apparent camaraderie between Horice
and Youtrin, he didn’t trust the thugs as far as he could throw them.  By the
time the Blades reached the outer door, Youtrin’s carriage had already pulled
away into the rain-soaked darkness.

“Bloody rain!”  Horice drew up the hood
of his weather cloak as he squinted out the door.  “My bones ache with this
blasted weather!”

“Yes, Master.”

Springtime in Twailin was a wet affair. 
Moist air rolled across the lowlands from the western ocean before slamming
into the towering bluffs to the east, the high, steep walls of the ancient
crater that contained the Bitter Sea.  The result was rain.  For three months, only
shreds of pale sun eked through the constant covering of clouds, and the heavens
opened up daily.  It was not a cold rain—the lowlands were far enough south
that the weather rarely, if ever, warranted a heavy cloak—but the constant dank
weather chilled the soul.  When summer finally arrived, the blistering heat was
a welcome change.

As the carriage pulled to a stop in the
alley, Horice started to step out into the rain, but Sereth put a restraining
hand on his arm.

“Garrote weather, Master.  Best let me
check.”

“Right.  Thank you, Sereth.  Don’t know
what I was thinking.”

Sereth looked up and down the alley, then
stepped out into the rain and turned to check above the doorway.  He was
well-acquainted with the advantages of garrote weather, having used them
himself.  The constant hiss of rain on cobbles and the roar of deluges from
downspouts prevented a mark from hearing an assassin’s approach, and a heavy
rain aided concealment.  On the other hand, a downpour could ruin the
trajectory of an arrow or bolt, darts or shuriken.  Consequently, springtime
was the season for close work, and garrote, dagger, and cudgel were the weapons
of choice.

Tonight nothing lurked in the shadows
above the door.  Sereth crouched to peer under the carriage.  Nothing.  Lastly,
he opened the carriage door and checked inside.

“Clear, Master.”

“Very good.”  Horice hurried across the
gap and boarded, shaking the rain from his cloak as Sereth ducked inside and
took a seat.  “Bloody rain!”

Settling back into the plush cushions, Horice
doffed the hood of his cloak and propped his sheathed rapier against his knee. 
It seemed an extravagant weapon for an assassin, with an ornate silver basket-hilt
and jewel-encrusted pommel, and was useless in the confined quarters of the
carriage, but the blade never left Horice’s side.  Rumor was it was enchanted,
but Sereth didn’t know what its magic did, and Horice never volunteered the
information.  So be it; he’d take his sturdy short sword and slender daggers
any day.

Sereth thumped the roof, and the carriage
lurched into motion.  He leaned back, rested one hand on a dagger hilt and the
other on the latch to the carriage’s door, tired, but attentive.

Horice shifted in his seat again, drawing
his attention.  The master often complained about the weather causing his bones
to ache.  Apparently, even the best swordsman in Twailin was not immune to the
effects of age.  Sereth didn’t like Horice much, and didn’t care for his
assignment as the man’s bodyguard, but the position had advantages, not having
to fight in the inter-faction squabbles, fend off Thieves Guild advances into
their territory, or serve a maniac like the Grandfather chief among them.

But there are disadvantages as well
, he reminded himself.  His position had attracted the
attention of others, and Sereth was paying for it every day of his life.  Even
worse, he wasn’t the only one paying for it.

The creak of an iron gate and the hail of
guards snapped him out of his gloom; they had arrived at Horice’s estate.  The
carriage lurched to a stop before the gaping double doors.  A valet waited with
a towel draped over one arm, a silver tray topped with a crystal tumbler and
decanter in his other hand.

“Won’t need you ’til morning, Sereth.” 
Horice waited for Sereth to open the door and jump out before following and hurrying
up the steps.  As he toweled dry, he called back, “Good work today.  Go home
and get dry.”

“Thank you, Master.”  Sereth strode
across the courtyard and through the gates, nodding to the guards as he passed. 
He had much to do, and this weather was good for more than killing.  With the
aid of the rain, he could easily pass through the city without being noticed,
and he had a long way to go—and another master to serve—before he could go to
his own cold, empty home.

Chapter
II

G
arrote
weather.”  Mya stepped out into the rain without even raising the hood of her
cloak.

Lad followed without pause.  He didn’t
wear a cloak.  His old master’s lesson rang in his mind:
Garments that impede
movement hinder your abilities.  Remember! 
Discomfort was transient; a
dagger in the heart was permanent.

Together, they walked through the rain.  Mya
didn’t like carriages, preferring to walk regardless of the weather.  He agreed
with her; carriages were noisy, confining and slow, hindering both perception
and mobility.  May as well climb into a coffin, have it nailed shut, and be loaded
onto a hearse.  He scanned the street, the shadows, the surrounding rooftops
and the storm grates.  The rainy season always made him tense.  His eyes
penetrated the gloom easily, but the rain interfered with his hearing.  Detecting
a heartbeat or a knife leaving a sheath was impossible even for him in a
downpour like this, and the rain masked the subtle scents of sweat, bad breath
and flatulence that might betray a hidden assassin.

“Yes, Mya.  Please, stay close.  The
rain—”

“Interferes with your perceptions.  Yes,
you’ve said that.”  She gave him a sidelong smile.  “About a thousand times.”

“Really?”  He gave her a blank look.  “You
counted?”

“No, I didn’t
count
, Lad.”  Mya rolled
her eyes.  “Sometimes I think that all the magic has damaged your brain a
little.”

Lad quelled a smile. Despite Mya’s quick
mind, she still hadn’t caught on to his affectation.  His understanding of
subtle verbal interplay had vastly matured since his arrival in Twailin, but he
found that people tended to underestimate him when they thought him naïve. 
If
your enemy is strong, feign weakness.  If your enemy is weak, show your
strength.  Remember!
  He would use every advantage he could to protect
himself and his family, even in dealing with Mya.

“I hadn’t considered that possibility.” 
He glanced at her quizzically.  “If my brain is damaged, could it be fixed?”

Motion low in the shadows…a rat.
  They passed the spot and the large rodent skittered
away, a smaller rat screeching in its mouth.  That was life in Twailin all
wrapped up in one simple picture: the biggest rat wins.  Despite that, Lad had
not lost his love for the city; the teeming mass of humanity—each person
struggling to be a just a bit too big for the next rat to eat—stimulated him as
much now as it had the first day he walked through the city gate.

“Maybe.  Magic can do amazing things, but
without knowing what’s wrong, it might be dangerous.”  She turned a corner and
he scanned the narrow street carefully, every corner, every shadow, every niche. 
“Fixing a broken bone is one thing, but I don’t know about letting a mage or
priest into my head.  I mean, what if they fix something that isn’t broken?”

This, too, he understood, but the
opportunity was just too juicy to pass up.

“How can you fix something that isn’t
broken?”

Mya sighed and rolled her eyes again.  “You
can’t, Lad.  What I
meant
was, if they go into your mind
looking
for something to fix, they might end up doing more damage than good.  They
could change what makes you who you are.”

“Oh!  Yes, that wouldn’t be good.”  He
had no intention of letting anyone into his head.  He’d had more than enough
magic controlling his thoughts, emotions and actions for a lifetime.  “I think
I’ll stay like I am.”

“That’s fine with me.”

They walked in companionable silence while
traversing two narrow alleys and a broad avenue.  It was late, so there were
few people on the street, but Lad never relaxed his vigilance.  The rain eased
from downpour to shower, allowing him to pick up more sounds and scents again. 
Metal clanking inside a second-floor apartment; just someone cooking.  The
scent of blood; only a butcher shop upwind.  The creak of a window followed by
a splash; someone emptying a chamber pot from a tenement window. 
Mya finally
broke the silence as they crossed from the South Dock district into Eastmarket.

“What did you think of the meeting with
Jayse?  Do you think he’s sincere, or is there something else behind his request?”

Though Mya was very good at gauging
people, and her tactical thinking was nothing short of brilliant, she often
asked his opinion of their clients and colleagues, relying on his keen
perceptions.  People had tells, habits that betrayed their unease or
nervousness, and Lad rarely missed fidgety fingers, pursed lips, or even the
subtle tensing of muscles.  Even Mya had tells, though she guarded her true
emotions more closely than most.  He would never admit to such an intimate
knowledge of her body language, but he had learned much by watching her over
the years.

“He didn’t show signs of being evasive.” 
He thought about it for a few steps, distracted by a sudden movement.
  Just
a flapping awning
.  “I think he was sincere, but then, he runs a gambling
house.  He may be gambling that your help will be worth more than he’ll have to
pay you.”

“That’s kind of what I thought.  He just
seemed…I don’t know…too nice.  Almost like he was buttering me up.”

“He seemed eager to tell you what he
thought you wanted to hear.  It could mean many things: he’s trying to take
advantage of you, he’s afraid of you, he wants to have sex with you, or—”

“Sex?”  She stopped cold, her eyes slashing
at him through the rain.  “You think he wanted sex from me?”

“His actions could be construed in that
way.”  He looked at her curiously.  Had she truly not considered that
possibility?  He had seen men’s eyes follow her as she strode past, lingering on
slim curves and snug trousers.  He shrugged.  “Why would that surprise you,
Mya?  You’re an attractive, powerful young woman.  Surely you’ve looked at men
and thought—”

“Yes, Lad, I’ve looked at men and thought
about having sex with them, but that’s not the issue.”  Blood flushed to her
face.  The muscles of her jaw tensed and relaxed rhythmically, her teeth
chirping against one another like tiny crickets.  These were some of Mya’s
tells.  His comment had struck a nerve.

“It’s not?”

“No, it’s not.  If that’s what Jayse
wants from me, he’s in for a big surprise!”  She turned and continued on her way,
her stride purposeful as she mounted High Bridge.  Below, the rain-swollen
river ran fast and dark, the roar of rushing water overwhelming the sounds of her
steps.  Lad matched Mya’s pace, curious about what had set her off.  He waited until
they had descended from the arched bridge so he wouldn’t have to shout his
question.

“Why?”

“Because he’s a businessman, and I’m a
master in the guild!”  Her voice sounded hard now.  She crossed Broad Street,
slowing as she entered the narrow alley that was the quickest path through the
long block of shops lining the waterfront.  Water still gurgled across the
cobbles and through the gutters, but at least the rain had eased to a sprinkle.
 “I don’t piss in my own bath, Lad.  Relationships with business associates are
a bad—”

The hiss of an indrawn breath from the
shadows…

Lad moved before the sound of a puff of
air through the dart gun reached his ears.

Hand on her shoulder, pull her out of
the line of attack…

Mya yelped, but yielded as he thrust her out
of the way.

…step around, acquire the target…

The dart that sped toward them was too
small to cause much damage, and so, must be poisoned.

…palm sweep and pivot
.

Lad’s open palm slapped the dart aside
without touching the barbed head, and he leapt toward its source.  A blade sang
from a sheath, another assassin in his path, sword arcing out of the night
toward his throat.

Recognition of one’s opponent, his
weapons, his expertise, is vital for survival.  Remember!

Katana.
 The information came to him instinctively, without
any deliberation on his part.
 Expert wielder, probably trained by a western
blademaster.  Lateral stroke meant to decapitate.  Timing and execution perfect.

Lad knew the fine, layered steel of a
katana would not break as easily as a common tempered blade.  He twisted in
mid-air, arching his spine and flinging back his head. The edge of the blade passed
a half inch from his nose, so close that he could see the glimmering reflection
of his own eyes in its wavy luster.  He clapped the flat of the blade between
his palms and used the power behind the attacker’s strike, as well as his own
momentum, to pirouette around the sword.

As his heel met with the wielder’s
temple, Lad pulled back minutely, exerting enough force to knock the man senseless,
but not enough to snap his neck.

I will not kill for you…

Lad had held to that tenant for five
years.  Not once had he killed in Mya’s service, and tonight he would not break
that vow.

Dropping to his feet, he released the
blade in a flipping motion.  As the braided sharkskin hilt slapped into his palm,
he assessed his remaining opponents.

Three more
.

The attacker with the blowgun stepped
back even as the other two advanced.  The nearest held two daggers low and
ready to strike, but she had not anticipated Lad’s theft of the first
assailant’s sword, which gave him a considerable advantage in reach.  He
parried her two thrusts, then swung the weapon in an arc.  The flat of the
blade met with her skull, and she fell like a poleaxed steer.  Her partner
dodged out of reach.

As the momentum of Lad’s stroke turned
him, he spied movement above and beyond Mya, two more assailants dropping from
the rooftops.  They would reach her before he could finish with these, but she
was already turning to face them, her daggers out.  Lad knew she was not
without skill; he just hoped she survived until he could lend his aid.

The puff of air from the dart caster’s
second shot sounded like a hammer blow in his mind.  Intuition and training
brought the blade up into the path of the dart, and the envenomed tip shattered
against the flat of the katana.  He leapt, knocked the blowgun aside, and
placed a careful kick into her chest.  The blow broke ribs, and her head cracked
against the brick wall.  She fell in a wheezing heap, but she, too, would live.

The last assailant stood with two hooked
axes at the ready, but hesitated.  Lad brought the katana around and settled into
a proper stance, ready for the man’s attack.

It didn’t come.

The axe wielder’s gaze flicked past Lad,
and then he simply backed away, turned and ran.

Lad whirled, ready to deal with the other
two assailants, hoping that Mya had managed to stay alive.  Unfortunately, he
was too late.

Mya stood over two corpses, a bloody blade
in each hand.  One assassin’s throat was slit from ear to ear, while the other
bore a wound to her left eye which undoubtedly penetrated all the way to the
back of her skull.  Unlike Lad, Mya had no compunctions about killing.