Weapon of Fear (4 page)

“Hoseph…” 
Glancing around the room as if just saying his name might summon the priest,
Mya swallowed hard.

Hoseph
had called himself the Right Hand of Death for two very good reasons.  The
priest had been the Grandmaster’s intermediary with the guildmasters, able to
travel vast distances in an instant.  He had also been the Grandmaster’s
personal executioner, able to kill with a single touch of magic.  Mya had her
own experience with his less lethal magic, the pulse of darkness that had
filled her with utter despair, incapacitating her with every dark act and
thought of her life.  Mya’s past was full of darkness.  If not for Lad, she
would have died without raising a finger to defend herself, so overwhelmed had
she been by Hoseph’s spell.

Admittedly,
such skills would be invaluable to her as Grandmaster.

If
I could control him
… 

But
how would Hoseph regard her unseemly ascendance?  After serving an Imperial
Grandmaster, would he submit to her authority? 
Not likely
.  Even if he
did agree to serve her, could she ever trust him?  Hoseph wasn’t a member of
the guild.  He could kill her, and probably would try if for no other reason
than revenge.  Until she knew for sure, she would assume the worst.  Hoseph had
no way to know she wore the Grandmaster’s ring, but he’d find out soon enough.

Then
he’ll try to kill me
.

“He
can’t know where I am,” she murmured as her eyes flicked to the shadowy corners
of the room.

Neither
she nor Lad had detected anyone following them, but this was a person who could
materialize out of thin air.  Underestimating Hoseph could prove lethal.  She
glanced at the band on her finger.  Could he somehow track the ring itself? 
Obsidian and gold danced in the lamplight as panic trembled her.  She shoved it
aside.  Exhausted and blood-weary, her fears were easily roused.  She needed
sleep, but sleeping rendered her vulnerable.

“What
I need is someone to watch over me…someone I can trust.”  Unfortunately, the
only person she trusted had just ridden out of Tsing in a carriage bound for
Twailin.

Mya
stopped pacing and dug her two favorite daggers out of her clothes trunk.  She
scraped one of the blades along her arm, pleased to see tiny hairs fall to the
floor.  They were clean and sharp.  If Hoseph popped in, she should be quick
enough to gut him. 
If I’m not asleep
.

“Sleep
lightly, Mya, or wake up dead.”  She blew out the lamp, backed into a corner,
and slid down the wall, her daggers ready.

Feeling
slightly safer in the dark, her nervous energy waned even as her doubts waxed. 
Was this to be how she spent the rest of her life, hiding in the dark, afraid
of death hidden in every shadow?  What choice did she have?

“Have
someone cut it off.”  Lad’s simplistic solution came to her, and she seriously
considered the option.

Mya
raised one of her daggers and placed the edge at the joint of the finger that
wore the ring.  She drew the razor edge across her flesh, and blood welled from
the tiny cut. 
No pain
…  She tried to apply pressure, but her hand
wouldn’t respond.  She couldn’t do it herself.  The ring’s magic wouldn’t allow
her to take it off or even cut it free.  She wiped the blade on her trousers
and sucked the blood from the already healed cut.

“That
doesn’t mean I can’t walk down to the kitchen in the morning and pay the cook
to do it.”  The simple solution steadied her.  She had an out.  She could,
quite literally, cut and run.

Mya
had a choice to make: flee, take control of the guild, or destroy it.  It was
that simple.  Regardless of her final choice, however, she had to survive until
morning.  Cold resolve steeled her fear, and she realized that Lady T, Hoseph,
and the guild also had a choice to make.

“Join
me or die.”

H
oseph woke to darkness and the dry,
musty scent of parchment and leather.  His back ached and he was chilled from
sleeping on the stone floor with only a threadbare blanket, but he took no
heed.  Demia’s chosen cared not for luxuries.  What he coveted were life’s
intangibles: power and influence, order and control.

Despite
the utter darkness, he knew innately that it was morning and time to rise. 
Calling on Demia’s gifts, a pale glow emanated from his palm.  He rose, stepped
to the table and struck a match, lighting the lamp there and illuminating his
surroundings.  The room was not large, and bookcases packed with old
leather-bound volumes and racks of scrolls made it seem even smaller. The
history of the Assassins Guild was recorded here, unnumbered years of murder
and conspiracy.  This was also the repository of the blood contracts.  Every
assassin signed one, binding themselves forever to the guild, submitting to
their masters’ control, signing their lives over to be spent if necessary. 
This secret room—with the death of the Grandmaster, known only to
Hoseph—represented the power and influence that he wielded as the Right Hand of
Death…power and influence that had been disrupted by Lad and Mya.  Anger and
frustration tensed his muscles and clouded his thoughts.

“Blessed
shadow of death, sooth me…”  Hoseph recited the mantra until his pulse slowed
and his mind eased.  Dealing with death every day had taught him temperance. 
Hoseph hated being forced into hasty action as he had last night.  The threat
of questioning under compulsion had forced his flight, rendering him guilty in
the eyes of the imperial guard.  He’d fled a second time an hour later when he
heard soldiers approaching his room in Demia’s temple where he had been
gathering his meager belongings.

What
he needed now was a concise plan of action.  The first step, of course, was to
change his appearance, for he had little doubt the city guard would be looking
for him.  Of course, a disguise wouldn’t fool his fellow priests and
priestesses.  They knew his soul.  Demia, sorter of souls, gifted all her
clergy with the ability to see the peculiar ethereal essence that made each
person unique.  This talent—useful when comforting the dying during their
transition to the afterlife—made disguises superfluous.  He would not be able
to go back to his own temple until his name was cleared.

Doffing
his distinctive crimson robe, Hoseph spread it on the floor.  Then he selected
a gleaming razor from his bundle of personal items, and stropped it to a fine
edge.  It had been decades since he had performed the ablutions of an acolyte,
but old habits returned easily.  Kneeling on the robe, he deftly shaved his
head, letting the shorn hair fall.  Unfortunately, he lacked water, resulting
in a few nicks and cuts.  He would have to stock the room with some essentials
until he resolved this situation.  When that was done, he shaved his face. 

Hoseph
bundled the robe to contain the hair and gazed down at his bare chest.  He ran
his fingers over the unblemished skin that last night had been split by Mya’s
dagger.  Duveau’s fleshforge had healed him completely, but there were scars
that no spell could heal.  An unfamiliar frisson of fear shook him.  Not of
death, his long-time acquaintance and ally, but of failure.

I
won’t fail
, he
insisted. 
I’ve worked too hard, accomplished too much
…

From
the bag of possessions he had managed to escape with, he withdrew his old
acolyte’s robes.  The coarse gray wool scratched his skin, so unlike the smooth
felt of his high-priest’s robe, but it didn’t matter.  Anonymity was more
important than comfort.  Flipping the tiny silver skull into his hand, Hoseph
invoked Demia’s grace, and the room melted into mist.

Moments
later, he materialized in a luxurious sitting room.  The golden morning light
glowed through sheer curtains.  It was still early.  Lady T was not present,
but he hadn’t expected her to be up at this hour.  Nobles were notoriously late
risers.  Usually when he visited, he pulled the bell rope and waited until a
servant arrived to summon the lady of the house.  They were used to his comings
and goings.  Today he was in no mood to wait.  He knew that she would still be
abed, so he simply knocked on the door that he assumed led to her bedroom. 
He’d never seen inside the room, so couldn’t use Demia’s gift to travel there. 
Doing so would have been dangerous anyway; assassins tended to be jumpy.

The
door to his left opened suddenly, and Hoseph found himself staring down the
shaft of a crossbow bolt aimed at his heart.  Lady T stood behind that
crossbow, her fingers on the trigger and her hair disheveled from sleep.  She
wore only a silk nightshift, confirming his supposition that she’d still been
in bed, but her eyes shone as sharp as the tip of the crossbow bolt that could
end his life with the twitch of her finger.

“Put
that down, Tara.  We’ve got trouble.”

“Hoseph?” 
Her eyes widened, and her fingers lifted off the weapon’s trigger, though it
didn’t point away from his heart.  “I hardly recognized you!  What the hell are
you doing here?  What’s wrong?”

Hoseph
saw no reason to beat around the bush.  “The Grandmaster is dead.”

“
What
? 
How?”  She lowered the weapon, the surprise on her face undeniably genuine.

“The
Twailin guildmaster and his Master Hunter.”  Hoseph still didn’t know exactly
how they’d managed it, but the who certainly grabbed the guildmaster’s
attention.

“Gods
of Light and Darkness…”  She whirled through the door without another word.

Hoseph
pursed his lips in mild irritation and followed her through a lavish dressing
room and into an even more extravagant bedchamber.  The bedroom was dim, the
heavy curtains still drawn, and Hoseph paused to allow his eyes to adjust.  The
crossbow thumped down upon the expansive four post bed, and Lady T reached for
a robe.  With three steps, the priest reached the nearest window and pulled
open the curtain.  He turned to the glaring guildmaster as she tied the robe
tight around her waist.

“But
the emperor’s blademasters—”

“Also
dead.”

“
Five
blademasters?”  Lady T’s brow furrowed as if she didn’t believe him.  “I knew
that Lad was a weapon, but…”

“Mya
also possesses some impressive skills.  She’s more than we thought.” 
More
than I thought
, he admitted to himself.

“But
to kill the Grandmaster…it’s unbelievable.  They had blood contracts!  They
wore
rings
!”

“Lad
never signed a blood contract.  It was the Grandmaster’s plan to force him to
sign one at this meeting.  He did, however, wear the guildmaster’s ring.” 
Hoseph nodded solemnly.  “I don’t know how they managed to circumvent the magic
of their rings, but the Grandmaster
is
dead.  I saw his body.”

Lady
T’s eyes narrowed as she gazed at the priest.  “And where were you when this
happened?”

Hoseph
waved an impatient hand.  “I tried to intervene and was sorely wounded.  I went
to summon the Imperial Guard.”

“And
you couldn’t,” she wiggled her fingers in the air, “magic him out of harm’s
way?”

Hoseph
breathed deep—
Blessed shadow of death
…—before answering.  His conscience
had pummeled him with this question all night.  He didn’t need her to remind
him that he had failed to save his master.  “As you said, they wore their guild
rings.  There was no reason to think that they could lay a hand on the
Grandmaster.”

Lady
T frowned, twisting the ties of her robe in thought. “So what are we going to
do?  The Grandmaster held the reins of the empire.  Now those reins are cut. 
We’ve lost our political influence, our future.”

“Not
so.”  Hoseph had already thought this through.  “There’s no reason why we can’t
gain back everything we’ve lost.  Crown Prince Arbuckle put off marrying only
to spite his father, but now he’ll
have
to produce an heir; the nobility
will insist.”

“We
don’t
know
what Arbuckle will do once he’s crowned emperor.”

“He’s
a weak-willed fool, Tara.” Hoseph’s lip curled in derision.  “He’s more
interested in his books than in ruling.  Have you ever known him to take a
vested interest in governing this empire or interacting with the nobility?”

“He
hasn’t taken part because he hasn’t been allowed to.  We don’t know what he’ll
do.”

“I
disagree.  Arbuckle has done exactly as he’s been told for his entire life.  If
he’s told that the people with experience governing this empire are willing to
take the reins for him, that he need do nothing but read his books and produce
an heir, he’ll do as he’s told.  If he needs additional incentive, we still
have the provincial dukes under our thumb.  They’ll do our bidding, or suffer.”

“
Our
bidding?”  She cocked an eyebrow at him.  “You forget that you’re not in the
chain of command, Hoseph.  You were the Grandmaster’s intermediary, not his
second in command.”

Blessed
shadow of death, sooth me
. 
As much as it chafed him, his position
had
changed; he would have to
cajole and compromise to get his way.  But in the end, it would all work out. 
Hoseph bowed his head to Lady T in silent acknowledgement.

“Once
we have an heir, Arbuckle will be eliminated, and we’ll ensure that the child
receives the proper upbringing and training.  It worked once, it will work
again.”

“And
who will be Grandmaster in the interim?”  She narrowed her eyes at him.  “I
sincerely hope that you don’t think it will be you.”

So
that’s what she’s worried about
. 
He smiled in contrition.  “Don’t be ridiculous, Tara.  I’m no assassin.  My
place is in the shadow of power, offering guidance.  I consider
you
the
obvious choice, of course.”

A
wry smile spread across the lady’s lips.  “Until the royal heir is trained up, then
you kill me to give
him
the ring.  I’ll certainly serve as interim
Grandmaster, but I’ll not wear the ring, except on a chain around my neck.”

“That
would suffice.  By the time the child is grown, you’ll have a duchy and be the
Emperor’s closest confidant, if we play our cards right.”  The priest rose and
gave her a significant look.  “But first we have to find and execute these two
rebels.  They took the Grandmaster’s ring.”

“They’d
have been fools not to.  But that raises a new problem. One of them has
undoubtedly put the ring on.  No assassin can touch the wearer.”

“I
can.”  Hoseph lifted a hand, the pearly glow of Demia’s death magic radiating
from his palm.  “You find them, and I’ll kill them.  But be wary.  For the
attack to succeed, it must be a complete surprise.”

“Of
course
it does!”  She glowered at him.  “Don’t deign to teach me my
business, Hoseph!”

“You
haven’t seen them
fight
, Tara.”  There it was again, that trill of fear
up his spine. 
Failure
…

“Some
of my people encountered them night before last.  I’m aware of their prowess.” 
Her glare remained undiminished.

“Very
well.”  He nodded respectfully.  “Find Lad and Mya.  They can’t have gone far
or fast.  They took an injured prisoner with them.”

“A
prisoner?  Who?”

“The
captain of the Twailin Royal Guard.” Hoseph quickly explained the sequence of
events that had brought Norwood to Tsing, including Lad’s association with the
man while searching for his wife’s killer.  “Find the traitors.  I’ll inform
the provincial guildmasters of the Grandmaster’s death and our plan to pressure
the provincial dukes to manipulate Arbuckle.”

“Can
I ask you a question before you flitter away?”

“Of
course.”

“Why
the disguise?”

“I
was…implicated in the emperor’s death.  They were going to question me under
magical compulsion, which would risk exposure of the guild.  I couldn’t let
that happen, so I fled.  I’m sure they took that as evidence of guilt, and that
the entire constabulary is searching for me.”

Lady
T cocked her head and scrutinized him, a lopsided smile on her lips.  “I can
arrange a better disguise for you.”

Hoseph
stiffened as he drew the hood of the acolyte’s robe over his head.  “Though I
must forego my high priest’s robes for the immediate future, I would not insult
my goddess by disavowing my allegiance altogether.”  He looked deliberately
around the room, committing the space to memory.  If their relationship didn’t
work out, he might have to pop in someday…or night.  “I’ll be in touch.”

Clasping
the silver skull hidden in the sleeve of his robe, Hoseph called on Demia’s
power, and the room melted into shadow around him.