Weapon of Blood (20 page)

“Attacking Mya and her bodyguard hasn’t
worked very well for them in the past.”  He picked up another swatch of darker
blue and held them both up, brushing the fabrics—first one, then the other—over
her breasts.  “Tell me, Sereth, which do you think is Kiesha’s color?  Take a
good look now.  I want your honest opinion.”

Sereth opened his mouth as if to protest,
then snapped it shut and obediently looked up at Kiesha.  Swallowing
forcefully, he said, “The lighter blue.”

“I agree.”  Hensen dropped the darker
swatch, draped the lighter over her shoulder and took a step back to examine
her.  “So, how do your masters hope to succeed where they have failed before?”

“They’re trying a new tactic.  They spent
half the night working up a plan.  That’s why I had time to come this morning;
Horice won’t be out of bed until noon.”

Hensen reached up to adjust the cloth,
and felt a warm drop on the back of his hand.  Tears welled in Kiesha’s eyes. 
She blinked, and another ran down her cheek, though she hadn’t moved a hair’s
breadth.  Mollified by the reactions he had provoked in them both, he turned
and rummaged through the array of swatches, picking out another, still blue,
but not so bright, richer in hue and beautifully accented.  “So, how do they
plan to do it?” 

“Let me see my wife, and I’ll tell you.”

Hensen stopped short, dropped the swatch
he held, and slowly turned to face the assassin.  “Was that an
ultimatum
,
Sereth?”

“No, that was an offer.”  The assassin
met his gaze with more steel than he had yet shown.  He swallowed again, and a
drop of sweat glistened on his brow.  “I want to see her.”

Hensen ran his gaze over the assassin’s clothing,
wondering if Terrence had found all of his weapons.  He had held Sereth’s wife
for three years now, but he kept her as healthy and happy as a captive could
be, just as he had promised, and all at his own expense.  Now this threat…

That’s gratitude for you
, he thought.

“Oh, very well.  Tell me how they plan to
kill Mya’s bodyguard, and you can see your precious wife.”

“Poison and trickery.”

“Trickery?”  Folding a few light blue
swatches together, he handed them to Kiesha.  “Have my seamstress make you a
gown from each of these.  Tell her: elegant, but not showy.”  He waved a hand
in dismissal.  “You can go.”

“Thank you, sir.”  Kiesha quickly plucked
her gray gown from the floor, clutching it to cover her breasts.

“I want that rag burned.”  Hensen’s voice
brooked no argument.  “And
never
wear anything so ugly in my presence
again.”

“Yes, sir.”  Her lips clenched in a tight
line, Kiesha nodded and strode from the room quickly, but calmly.

Hensen noted the hungry stare with which
Sereth followed Kiesha’s exit.  The assassin’s hands were clenched so hard that
his knuckles shone white. 
That might be of use
, he thought. 
A man
without his wife is a lonely man indeed
.

“So!”  The master thief plopped into a
well-cushioned chair, neglecting to offer Sereth a seat.  “Tell me all about
this assassination plot.”

Chapter
XIII

I
t’s been two
days, Mya.  You must have learned something by now.”  Lad kept his voice low
enough that only Mya could hear as they entered the
Golden Cockerel
, not
difficult with the evening din.  He didn’t leave immediately at seeing her in, as
he usually did, but followed her toward the back room. “We traipsed around the
entire city today, and you didn’t ask a single one of your people to look into
this like you promised.”

Mya didn’t answer until Mika shut the
door behind them.  “I told you I’d look into it, and I am.  It’s not that
simple.”

That was the same answer she’d given him
all day.  She must be tired of saying it.  He was certainly tired of hearing
it.  Lad had thought that if he badgered her, Mya might get irate enough to
drop her guard and say or do something that would reveal what she was hiding. 
He was convinced that she knew something about Vonlith’s death.  He had been
reading her body language long enough to know when she was lying.  Walking
around the city, he had to be careful what he said, but here they could talk
freely, and after today’s trek she had to be tired.  Fatigue might make her
more likely to let something slip.

“What’s not simple about it?  We find
Vonlith’s killer, point Norwood at him, and we’re done.”

“It’s not that simple because this was a
professional assassination, Lad.”  Mya picked up a towel from the table and
rubbed her hair dry.  When she finished, her short crimson locks stuck up in
all directions.  “My people found out that much.  I also sent out some feelers,
good journeymen who have contacts in the other factions, and nobody has heard
this mentioned as a guild assassination.  But if it
was
one of ours,
outing the killer to the Royal Guard would be a breach of guild law.  I’ve got
to be careful.  If the other masters suspect that I might rat out one of their
people to protect one of my own, they’ll kill me for it.”

Lad had not spotted a single one of her
tells.  She seemed to be telling him the truth.  His frustration grew.  “How
would that change things, Mya?  They’ve already tried to kill you.”

“They try to kill me
individually
. 
And to be honest, I return the favor occasionally.  You don’t think Patrice’s
predecessor really died of a heart attack, do you?”  She smoothed down her
hair, then picked up the mug of mulled wine from the table and took a gulp.

“You killed Calmarel?”  The admission
startled him.  He had wondered about the Master Inquisitor’s sudden death, but
Mya had never said anything.  Then again, he had never asked. 
So why tell
me now?  Is she trying to show that she trusts me?

“Not personally, but yes.  She tried to
have me killed, so I tracked her down and had someone slip foxglove extract
into her tea.”  She draped the towel over a chair back and gave him a sardonic
look.  “Tell me honestly; does that surprise you?”

“Not really.”

“Anyway, if they learned that I ratted
out a guild member, all four of the masters would finally agree on something. 
They’d combine their resources, and my life wouldn’t be worth spit.”  She took
another draught of wine and sighed with pleasure.  “This is very good, Lad. 
You should ask Pax for a cup on your way out.  It’ll keep you warm on the way
home.”

Lad almost smiled.  He must be really
getting on her nerves.  She usually wanted him to stay.

“I have other things to keep me warm on
my way home,” he said, thinking of the impending game of chase.  “Could we
point Norwood at someone outside the guild to keep him away from the inn?”

“You mean frame someone?”  Mya grinned at
him.  “I’m
proud
of you, Lad!  You’re starting to think like a proper
assassin!”  She moved to clap him on the shoulder, and he stepped back out of
range.  Her smile fell.

“I already think like an assassin, Mya. 
I’ve been one far longer than you.”

“No, Lad,” she said, her voice low and
hard.  “You were the
weapon
of an assassin.  There’s more to being one
of us than knowing how to kill.  I may be no match for you in a fight, but I’m
very
good at what I do, and that’s
thinking
.  The brain is the most dangerous
weapon of all.”

“Fine.”  Lad felt an uncharacteristic
surge of anger at the implication that she was smarter than he.  She wasn’t,
but he had to admit that her mind moved in devious ways that he couldn’t
match.  “Use your brain and find some stooge to satisfy Norwood.  Pick an old
enemy or something.  Gods know you have enough of them.”

Mya opened her mouth to reply, but the
door opened, and Paxal entered with her dinner.

“Evening, Pax.”  She stepped around the
table and took her seat.

“Miss Mya.”  The innkeeper looked at Lad,
then back at her.  “If I’m interrupting something, I can come back.”

“No.  No, we’re done.”  Mya looked
pointedly at Lad.  “Be careful on your way home, Lad.  Garrote weather, you
know.”

“Yes, Mya.”  He gave her a short bow,
playing his part as her dutiful bodyguard, and left the room, angry with
himself.  The verbal sparring had gotten him nowhere, and now she was on the
defensive.  Her reasons for her actions were sound and he had not detected a
single one of her tells.

The brain is the most dangerous weapon
of all.  Remember!

This was not among the countless lessons
he’d been taught, but he knew she was right.  He had not been trained to think
beyond immediate tactics, attack and defense.  Mya, on the other hand…  The
ways of her mind were darker and more labyrinthine than the back alleys of the
Sprawls.

But Lad had learned a great deal in the
last five years. He’d watched her run her Hunters like an efficient machine,
building her business, and outwitting her competitors by anticipating their
every move.  Pitting himself against Mya with his usual tactics would be like
beating a brick wall with his fists.  The wall might break eventually, but his
fists would break first.

So start thinking ahead.
  Lad walked through the common room, ignoring the din
of laughter, the clatter of dice, and the flip of cards. 
Why is Mya being
evasive about Vonlith’s death?  What doesn’t she want me to find out?

He thought hard as he automatically sidestepped
a busy barmaid carrying a heavy tray of drinks, posing and answering questions. 
Why is Mya being evasive?
 
She knows something about the killing. 
What might she know about it?  Who the killer is.  Why would she protect the
killer?  Because he or she is a friend.  No, Mya has no friends.  She considers
me a friend, but other than that, her only friend is…herself
.

Lad stopped in the doorway.  He hadn’t
considered that Mya may have killed the mage.  He couldn’t think of a reason
why she would, then remembered what she had said to him.  She thought he would
be relieved that Vonlith was dead.  One less person who knew his secret.

Did she kill Vonlith in a misguided
attempt to protect me?  Is this another death on my conscience?
  Mya knew Lad abhorred killing.  Was she afraid of
what he might do if he found out she had killed on his behalf?  What
would
he do?  Whatever else Mya had done, she had helped him escape his slavery and
kill the Grandfather.  Without her, he would have been the guildmaster’s weapon
forever.

But without her they might never have
caught me in the first place.  Did she have a choice in that assignment?  Could
she have rebelled?  No.  She was the Grandfather’s slave. 
She’d had no choice, just as he’d had no choice.

With too many questions and not enough
answers, Lad walked out of the
Golden Cockerel
into the rain, and took a
deep, steadying breath.  A challenging chase through the streets of Twailin
would clear his head.  He stepped away from the pub and scanned the darkness
with all of his senses.

Nothing.

These stalkers were getting good,
apparently waiting for him to move to reveal themselves.  Lad jogged slowly
down the street, rounded a corner and stopped to listen.  Still nothing.  He
squinted into the darkness, straining to hear, breathing deeply of the
rain-washed air in hopes of catching a scent, all to no avail.

No stalkers tonight?
  He was disappointed.  It wasn’t unusual for them to
skip a night or two, but he’d been perversely looking forward to the exercise.

Even so, Lad moved into the shadows and
made his careful way up the street, listening and gauging the night.  He thought
for a moment that he might have heard the scuff of a soft boot against stone,
but when he stopped again, he detected nothing.  If someone was following him,
they were very good indeed.  The rain had slackened, but not stopped
completely, so his senses weren’t at their peak.  He turned a corner, still not
heading toward home, and finally heard something.  He knew immediately,
however, that this wasn’t a stalker; they were too noisy for that.

A woman’s laughter, a man’s slurred reply
cut through the hiss of rain.  Lad cocked his head; they were in the alley just
ahead, next to
The Silver Thistle
.  The pub was a well-known rendezvous
for the ladies and gents of the evening and their clients.  Business was always
booming and, from the giggles and grunts he heard,
some of that business
had spilled into the alley.

Not my business
.

As he traversed the mouth of the alley,
however, the man’s voice raised in a shout.

“Filthy slut!  Gimme that back!”  The
impact of a fist against yielding flesh and a cry of pain stopped Lad in his
tracks.  He peered down the alley to see a large man bending over a petite
woman.

“Wait!  I didn’t—”

“I’ll teach you to pinch a purse while a
man’s pants are down!”  The man’s fist fell again, and the woman’s head jerked
with the impact.

Maybe this is my business
.

This pub was in Mya’s territory, and she
collected a percentage of the money made on the prostitution and gambling that
took place there.  The owner also paid her for protection.  It seemed only
right that Lad actually provide some protection.

Lad strode into the alley.  “Stop!”

“What?”  The main straightened and
turned.  “Who’s that?”

“Who I am isn’t your concern.  Now walk
away from her.”

“If you’re not a constable, and you’re
not one of Jonesy’s boys, then
this
ain’t
your
business.”  The
man pointed down at the woman with one hand, the other fumbling to finish
buttoning his codpiece.  “She tried to lift my purse while we were conductin’ a
bit of business.  I’m just teachin’ her a lesson.”

“She’s learned her lesson, now walk
away.”

“She ain’t learned half of what I aim to
teach her, boy, so you best be on your way.”  The man reached down, grasped the
front of the woman’s dress, and lifted her easily.  His other hand cocked back
in a fist.  The woman’s piteous shriek split the rain-soaked night.