Weapon of Fear (21 page)

Arbuckle
contemplated the long list that he and Tennison had compiled, the names of
those who might want him dead.  The number of dukes, counts, barons, and
magistrates was disconcerting.  He shoved the parchment across the desk.  “It
would be shorter if we listed the people who
didn’t
want me dead.”

Tennison
shrugged.  “You’ve upset a number of notable people, Milord Prince.  Those
accustomed to getting what they want react poorly to being told they can no
longer have their way.”

Arbuckle
sighed and slumped in his chair.  As a student of history, he knew that
assassination was a time-honored method of eliminating rulers who displeased
their subjects.  His father had abused and berated the common folk for forty
years, and finally someone had devised a plan to eliminate him.  How ironic
that the emperor—master of an empire-wide network of assassins—had himself been
assassinated.  Hopefully Ithross would have more luck tracking down whoever
poisoned Arbuckle’s blackbrew than he had the emperor’s killer.

The
list of people who would benefit from his death haunted Arbuckle’s thoughts,
but he resolved to refrain from thinking ill of anyone until he had proof.  He
was not his father to intimidate his peers into submission.  Vigilance seemed
the only prudent course of action.

A
knock on the door interrupted Arbuckle’s reverie.  Tennison slipped out and
immediately returned with an imperial guard officer.

“Milord
Prince.”  The young lieutenant Rhondont bowed with a flourish.  “Commander
Ithross and Archmage Duveau wish to inform you that their task has borne
fruit.  If you would like to—”

Arbuckle
was out of his chair before the woman could finish.  “Take me to them
immediately.”

Following
her down the steps to the main floor with blademasters stalking by his side and
Tennison and Renquis trailing behind, servants, commoners, and guests of the
palace scattered from their path like leaves before a gale.  The opulent
surroundings faded to utilitarian stone passages and plain wooden doors, as the
officer led him into areas of the palace he had not seen in decades.  Not since
his boyhood had Arbuckle visited the service areas.  He’d forgotten how austere
they were.

The
lieutenant finally stopped before a nondescript door and knocked.  The door
opened and a woman wearing a maid’s uniformed emerged.  At the sight of the
crown prince she beamed and curtsied.

“Thank
you, Milord Prince!  Thank you very much!”  With another curtsey, she flitted
down the corridor.

Arbuckle
watched her go, bemused by her apparent delight at seeing the man who had
ordered her loyalty questioned.  “What was that about?” he asked Ithross as he
entered the captain’s chambers.  A few upholstered chairs—one occupied by a
weary and frowning Archmage Duveau—were set in a circle around a low table.

“We’ve
told everyone that the interviews are being conducted as a job evaluation,
which allows us to ask about their duties, access to your food, their
whereabouts this morning, and so on without raising suspicion.  They are
thanked in your name and given a small reward for their service.”  He indicated
a stack of silver crowns on the table.

The
archmage stood and nodded politely, but didn’t bow as he should have.  “With
your permission, milord, I’ll leave.  I must rest.  I’ll send Master Keyfur to
continue the interrogations.”

“That’s
fine.”  Arbuckle let the slight pass without comment.  “I was informed that you
discovered something, Captain.”

“In
here, milord.”

Arbuckle
followed Ithross into an adjacent room and caught his breath when he realized
there was a dead man lying on the table.  He recognized the wine steward instantly. 
The man had served him many times, on more than one occasion politely answering
questions from the crown prince on the provenance of this wine or that.  The
man had always seemed so knowledgeable and sophisticated.  Now he was dead,
white spittle riming his pale lips.

“What happened?”  Arbuckle
swallowed, his throat so dry the words barely scratched out.

Master Corvecosi straightened
from his examination of the corpse and bowed.  “Poison, Milord Prince. 
Self-administered.”

Ithross
shrugged. “He arrived for his interview and seemed calm until he saw Archmage
Duveau.  Then he clenched his jaw, started foaming at the mouth, and
collapsed.  We summoned Master Corvecosi immediately, but the man was dead in
seconds.”

Corvecosi
indicated the man’s mouth.  “He had a false tooth that held the toxin.”

“A
false tooth?”

“He
was a professional, milord.”  Ithross looked grave.

“He
was a member of the palace staff!”  The words sounded ridiculous as soon as they
left his mouth. 
My father was master of an assassins guild
.  Was the
wine steward one of those assassins?  Was the poisoned blackbrew retaliation
for the death of Tynean Tsing? 
I had nothing to do with it!

“I
concur with the captain.”  Corvecosi opened the wine steward’s mouth with a
finger.  “Such things are rare and expensive.”

Arbuckle
swallowed hard.  “Carry on, Master Corvecosi.  Captain, we need to discover all
there is to know about him, but quietly.  I want the Imperial Guard to conduct
the investigation, even if it leads outside the palace walls.  If you have
trusted guards…”

“I
took the initiative to have all the imperial guards interviewed by Master
Kiefer, milord.  Only two didn’t pass, for reasons unrelated to this situation,
and they’ve been dismissed.  I’ll vouch for all the rest.”

“Good!” 
The prince looked again at his would-be killer.  “I suppose we can open the
palace.  What story can we make up about the lockdown?”

“Already
done, milord.  We were conducting security drills in preparation for your
coronation.”

“Excellent! 
I’ll keep my appointments this afternoon, Tennison, else it will be assumed
that something’s amiss.”

“Do
you think that wise, Milord Prince?”  The captain looked worried.

“I
think it
necessary
, Captain Ithross.”

Arbuckle
made his way back to his office in silence, all the while considering the
attempt on his life.  He owed his survival to the paranoia of whichever
long-dead ancestor had requisitioned the enchanted dinnerware.  He or she must
have had many enemies to go to such lengths.

Enemies… 
Arbuckle hoped his
defenses were sufficient to protect him  He glanced at the blademasters surrounding
him.  Despite the spectacular failure of his father’s bodyguards, the
blademasters’ solid presence—silent, vigilant, and ever watchful—reassured
Arbuckle.  This assassination attempt wouldn’t be the end of it.

Who
wants me dead, and what will be their next step?
  He didn’t dare hope that the next
attempt would be so simple or so easily foiled.

“How
could this happen?”  Hoseph paced the sitting room, clenching and unclenching
his hands.

“Operations
don’t always proceed as intended.” Lady T’s casual tone juxtaposed the wrinkles
marring her brow.  “Arbuckle was definitely alive this afternoon, and my
operative’s nowhere to be found.  He was one of my best.  If he was alive, he’d
have reported in.  I’ve got to conclude that he’s dead, and the attempt
failed.”

“Such
failure is unheard of!  You
always
reported success to the Grandmaster.”

“Of
course
I did!”  Her worry transformed to indignation.  “I wouldn’t
bother
him
with recitations of failure.  If an operation doesn’t
succeed, we revise our approach and try again.  It’s called perseverance.”

Hoseph
glowered at her, then reigned in his temper with a deep breath. 
Blessed
shadow of death, sooth me
…  “How do you propose we
revise
our
approach?  What are Arbuckle’s weaknesses?”

“His
weakness is an absurd affection for commoners.  We may consider posing someone
as a peasant begging an audience.”  She shrugged.  “His strengths are the
palace itself, a company of loyal guards, and his blademasters, though after
their failure to protect the emperor, I imagine their honor has been seriously
besmirched.  They’re undoubtedly on pins and needles.”

A
spark ignited in Hoseph’s mind.  “Yes, they
have
been discredited…”  The
high priest glanced out the window at the darkening sky. 
Yes... Tonight. 
First the archives, then
…  “Do nothing until I contact you.”

“What
are you—”

The
lady’s question dissolved in the swirling blackness that enveloped him.

Hoseph
drifted through mist and shadow, concentrating on his earthly destination, the
Temple of Koss Godslayer.  He’d only been inside the temple once, long ago as
an acolyte on an errand for his high priest, but once was enough.

Unless
they’ve rearranged the Great Hall
. 
He invoked his talisman to reenter the real world, and felt no resistance.  The
way was clear.  Though he couldn’t actually
see
his intended
destination, he could
feel
when an object blocked his arrival, and
adjust accordingly.

The
Sphere of Shadow faded away, but the lighting barely brightened as Hoseph materialized. 
Reaching out a hand, he felt a smooth wall and edged forward, his eyes growing
accustomed to the dimness.

The
Great Hall of the Temple of Koss Godslayer was long and narrow and as austere
as he remembered it, empty save for row upon row of hard stone benches before
the altar.  Worshipers of Koss Godslayer were equally austere and strictly
regimented, with specific hours designated for prayer, meals, sleep, and
training the mind and body to exacting standards.  Consequently, unlike the
cults of more risqué deities like Thotris, the goddess of beauty, or Bofuli,
the god of wine and merriment, who had more applicants than they could accept,
few devoted themselves to the rigorous devotion of Koss Godslayer.  Those who
did were fanatic in their worship.

Hoseph
walked slowly down the isle between the pews and the wall toward the towering
sculpture of Koss Godslayer behind the altar.  Its glow-crystal eyes
illuminated the cunningly wrought bas-reliefs depicting the story of Koss’
ascension.  Along the right-hand wall, Koss was born of Eos All Father and a
mortal woman, presented with Godslayer, the Sword of Light, and blessed by the
Gods of Light.  The left-hand wall depicted the coupling of Seth the Defiler
and Draco Father of Dragons, the birth of their single offspring, and the
unfettering of that nameless serpent onto the world to corrupt all of mortal-kind. 
Upon the north wall, behind the looming statue, the two stories culminated as
Koss slew the serpent-god, and bonded with Godslayer, ascending to godhood as
Koss Godslayer, man and weapon as one.

Such
a simplistic cult
…

The
blessing granted to Koss by the Demia was the reason for Hoseph’s visit this
night.  Sleep being akin to death, Demia had entered and soothed Koss’ troubled
dreams.  It was a skill taught to her most devoted of worshipers as a final
solace to the dying.  Tonight, he would use that skill for a different purpose.

Hoseph
looked around to get his bearings.  Earlier in the evening he had
surreptitiously visited city archives and reviewed copies of the original
architectural designs for the temple.  Now he pictured those drawings in his
mind and matched them to what he saw.

Four
large doors exited the north end of the main hall of worship, leading to the
wings for the Orders of the Body, Spirit, Mind, and Sword. It was the last that
interested Hoseph.  Somewhere behind this door slept High Priest Saepse, the
master of the blademasters of Koss Godslayer in Tsing.

Hoseph
tried the door’s latch, but it was locked.  He was no assassin, and certainly
no burglar, but stealth and intrusion were redundant when one could walk the
realm of shadows.  He peered through the large keyhole into the corridor
beyond.  Touching his silver skull, he vanished and reappeared on the other
side of the door.  Through two more doors like a breeze through a shutter, and
still no sign of guards.  Unnecessary—none would dare confront blademasters.