Weapon of Fear (19 page)

“I
won’t miss.”  Mya inspected the hole in her dress and the thick bloodstain down
her side.  “And you owe me a dress.”

“G
ood morning, milord.”  Baris
entered his master’s bedchamber and drew back the drapes.

“I
don’t know how good it is yet, Baris.”  Arbuckle blinked at the bright sunlight
and climbed reluctantly out of bed.  “I’ve only slept a few hours.  I won’t
know anything until I’ve had a pot of blackbrew.”

“Of
course, milord.”  Baris held a silk robe for him, his face blank, though his
voice might have held a hint of amusement.

Arbuckle
slipped into his robe and refrained from glaring, thinking only of blackbrew
and the pile of work that awaited him.  “Summon Tennison.  I’ll dress before
breakfast so we can get right to work.” 

“As
you wish, milord.”

By
the time Arbuckle had finished his morning ablutions and dressed with his
valet’s deft aid, his desire for blackbrew had sharpened into all-out
yearning.  Entering his sitting room, he was pleased to see the table already
set.  The fine porcelain dishes and crystal goblets gleamed in the early
morning sunlight streaming through the window.

“Breakfast
is on the way, milord.”

“Thank
you, Baris.”  Arbuckle settled into his seat as his valet retreated to the
bedchamber to tidy up, and nodded good morning to the blademasters guarding the
door.  He sometimes wondered why he bothered being cordial to the bodyguards;
they never gave the slightest indication that they noticed, and certainly never
returned the greeting.

“Good
morning, Milord Prince.”  Tennison entered, followed by a dour young woman
toting a thick ledger.  “Renquis here will serve as your scribe for the next
few days while Master Verul organizes the archives.”

“Welcome,
Renquis.”

“Milord
Prince.”  The woman’s whisper barely reached his ear.  After an awkward
curtsey, she hurried to the chair in the corner and sat down as rigid as a
mannequin with her ledger on her lap, her pen hovering over the page, ready to
take down Arbuckle’s every utterance.

“Your
schedule is heavy today, milord.”  Tennison opened his appointment book and ran
his finger down the page.  “Four nobles have requested audiences this morning,
then lunch with Duchess Ingstrom.  This afternoon, Chief Constable Dreyfus
wishes to see you about the lack of prison space for incarcerated malcontents.”

Arbuckle
cocked an eyebrow.  “Did Dreyfus actually call them
malcontents
?  That
seems like a mild term, considering his usual attitude.”

“I
paraphrased his rather stronger and lengthier descriptive,” Tennison admitted.

Arbuckle
sighed.  “Malcontents…  Most of the incarcerated have good
reason
to be
discontent.  Do you know that most of the cases I reviewed last night were charges
of failure to follow a lawful order to disperse and resisting arrest?”

“I
did not, milord.”

“The
jails overflow with those too slow to evade the constables, and it seems I’m
paying for my foolishness.  I hate to admit it, but Magistrate Graving was
right about one thing: there are far too many cases for me to personally
review.”

The
scratch of the scribe’s pen recording his admission unreasonably annoyed
Arbuckle.  It didn’t help that his blackbrew craving had evolved into a
headache.  His stomach growled, and he wondered if Renquis would put that in
the log, too.

“There
may be a solution, milord.”  Tennison tapped the edge of his book with a
finger, a habit Arbuckle had learned signified deep thought.  “There are several
retired knights of the Order of Paladin in the city.  They’re learned in law
and loyal to a fault.  I’m sure they’d appreciate the opportunity to once again
serve the empire.”

“Hmmm. 
Where might we find them?”

Tennison
looked surprised.  “There are four currently living in the palace, milord.”

“There
are?  Why didn’t I know of them?” 
Arbuckle’s surge of annoyance dissipated when the door opened and two footmen
entered.  The first bore a tray with covered plates, the second, a silver
blackbrew service.  The crown prince inhaled the heady aroma of fresh
blackbrew, anticipating his first euphoric sip.

“I
didn’t realize you weren’t aware of the paladins’ presence,” said Tennison. 
“If you wish, I’ll set up appointments for them to attend you, though it may be
difficult for Lord KerBalish and Lord MalEnthal.  They’re not ambulatory.”

Arbuckle’s
mouth watered as a footman swiftly laid out his breakfast: plates of kippered
herrings, poached eggs, potato pancakes, toast, and a bowl of steaming
porridge.  The other, the blackbrew pot in one hand, plucked the porcelain cup from
the table to pour.

“Not
to worry,” Arbuckle said, “I’ll go to them.  As long as their minds are keen
and they understand—”

A
sharp crack took everyone unawares.

The
blademasters reacted instantly, hands on their swords as their eyes snapped to
the source of the noise.  The footman holding the blackbrew pot stared wide-eyed
down at his hand.  The cup he’d been holding had cracked and split so
completely that only the handle remained in his grasp.  The pieces lay upon the
rug amidst a spatter of blackbrew.

“Your
pardon, milord!”  The man looked horrified, his voice trembling.  “I…don’t know
what happened.  I just…  I just poured.”

Arbuckle
was more startled by the abject fear on the man’s face than the shattered cup. 
If he’d been serving my father, his head would probably already be on the
floor beside the broken cup
.  It would take time for the staff to learn
that their new lord didn’t consider a simple mishap to be a capital offence.

“Blademasters,
stand down.”  The prince kept his tone casual.  “There’s been no harm done that
can’t be cleaned up.  In fact, it looks as if there was hardly any blackbrew in
the cup to spill.  Just pour me another cup, good man.  I’ll survive.”

“Yes,
milord!”  The footman with the blackbrew pot looked reassured as he retrieved a
new cup from the sideboard.  He hurried back to the table and poured steaming
blackbrew.

The
cup shattered, splattering the dark liquid across the table and setting off a
chain reaction of detonating dinnerware.  The saucer, the juice goblet, and two
of the plates exploded into pieces, showering the crown prince in shards of
porcelain and bits of his breakfast.

“What
the hell?”  Arbuckle jerked back, nearly toppling his chair.

The
blademasters lunged forward, swords drawn, one to stand protectively beside the
prince, the other with his blade at the terrified footman’s throat.

“Milord!” 
Tennison gaped at the destroyed place setting.

“Good
Gods of Light, what’s going on?”  Arbuckle edged away from the table.  This
wasn’t a simple accident.  Something was truly amiss.

“I
don’t know, milord.”  The server looked as if he didn’t know which frightened
him most, the blademaster’s sword at his throat or the blackbrew pot in his
hand.  “I just…poured.”

Arbuckle
stared at the mess on the table, porcelain and crystal shards everywhere, and
the white linen cloth stained with blackbrew.  Only a few dishes on the
unsoiled corner of the cloth had escaped the destruction. 
That’s curious
… 
“Blademasters, lower your weapons.  Give me the pot.  I want to try something.”

Tennison
stepped forward.  “Milord, caution, if you please.”

“If
the pot’s not hurting the footman, Tennison, I doubt it will hurt me.” 
Retrieving the pot, Arbuckle dribbled some blackbrew onto one of the unscathed
plates.  The fine porcelain shattered.  “Well!”

A
blademaster plucked the pot from Arbuckle’s hand and set it in a far corner, as
if isolating a potential threat.

Arbuckle
wiped his hands self-consciously on his doublet.  “Well, something’s not
right.  Fetch Master Duveau.  I want him to look at this.”

“At
once, milord!”  The second footman dashed out.

Arbuckle
gazed longingly at his ruined breakfast.  “Damn it, I was looking
forward
to that blackbrew.”

“Milord.” 
Tennison looked worried.  “Might I suggest that you withdraw to your bed
chamber until the archmage arrives?  This is…well…disturbing, to say the
least.”

Arbuckle
started to protest, but his blademasters nigh herded him into the inner room
and closed the door.  Baris looked horrified when Arbuckle told him of the
exploding cups and plates, and had a fresh shirt and doublet for him in
moments.  Sighing in contrition, the prince picked up one of the case
descriptions he’d been working on the previous evening, reading it as he paced
the floor.  His mind, however, was not on his work, but on his strange
exploding breakfast. 
What could cause tableware to shatter?
 
Some
kind of magic, or curse?

Arbuckle
lay the book aside when he heard voices in the outer room.  Opening the door,
he discovered Captain Ithross and several imperial guards entering from the
corridor.

“Milord
Prince, are you all right?”  The captain swept his gaze around the room,
focusing briefly on the soiled tablecloth and shattered porcelain before fixing
on the crown prince.  “A footmen said that all Nine Hells had broken loose in
here.”

“Not
quite
all
nine, but we have had a bit of a surprise.  It’s something to
do with the blackbrew.  I’ve sent for Archmage Duveau to try to figure out what
happened.”

“Milord,
we’ve got to get you away from here.”

“I
seem to be safe enough, Captain, and I want to know what Duveau discovers.” 
Arbuckle would be damned if he’d get shunted away now.

Ithross
shook his head.  “I really must insist—”

The
door opened again, and Archmage Duveau entered.  “Milord, I really must—”  The
wizard stopped short at the sight of the wreck of Arbuckle’s breakfast table. 
“Ah, so
that’s
it.”

“
What’s
it, Master Duveau?”

“Someone
has tried to poison you, milord.”  Duveau might have been saying that it was
sunny outside for all the concern in his voice.

“Poison?” 
Arbuckle swallowed hard. 
Someone just tried to kill me
.

“How
do you know that?” Ithross demanded.

Duveau
ignored the captain and bent over the table to examine the shattered cups and
plates, then noticed the blademaster standing guard over the pot in the
corner.  “The blackbrew?”

“How
do you
know
?” Ithross repeated.

“I
know
because the imperial family’s tableware is enchanted to break if it is ever
touched by poison.”  Duveau stepped past the blademaster to pick up blackbrew
pot.  Moving back to the table, he lifted a spoon, dipped it into the pot, and
drew it out.  The end of the spoon had melted away.  “Yes, without a doubt, the
blackbrew is poisoned.”

While
Arbuckle’s mind spun, Ithross spoke in a whisper to one of his guards.  The
woman saluted and dashed from the room. 

“Enchanted
tableware?  Why didn’t I know about this?”  Arbuckle was beginning to wonder
just how much there was that he didn’t know about his own home.

“Very
few
do
know of it, milord.”  Duveau shrugged and put the melted spoon
onto the table.  “The emperor, of course, myself, and Mistress Ellis, our
resident runemage, who is tasked with maintaining the magic on the service and
enchanting new pieces.”  The archmage cast a thunderous glare around the room. 
“And now, everyone
here
knows of it.  And let me inform you all that it
is imperative that it
remain
absolutely secret.  If I learn that one
word of what I’ve said about this precaution has left this room, the loose
tongue will be found out and
removed
!”

The
footmen and several imperial guards paled under the archmage’s wrath.

The
threat tweaked Arbuckle’s temper.  “You needn’t be so harsh about—”

“With
all due respect, Milord Prince, I do!  If this becomes common knowledge, it is
useless as a protection and puts your life at risk.  Only by remaining a secret
did this enchantment save your life and offer a chance to catch the culprit
before he knows his attempt has failed.”

“Very
well.”  Arbuckle swept the room with his eyes.  “Everyone here is sworn to
secrecy with regard to this enchantment under penalty of treason.  Is that
understood?”

Everyone
bowed and muttered, “Yes, milord.”

Arbuckle
turned to Ithross.  “Captain, can we catch this assassin?”

“Already
working on it, milord.  The palace is being locked down as we speak.  No one
can leave or enter until I say so.  But I have to wonder,” he pointed to the
destroyed tableware, “how could such a thing be done?”

“It’s
no trivial matter.”  Duveau stood a little taller.  “The spell is subtle, the
runes hidden beneath the outer layer of glaze.  It’s quite beyond the skill of
all but a few.  I have a fascination with rune magic, but this, I must admit,
is beyond even my expertise.  It requires a—”