Weapon of Fear Page 2

  Ithross looked skeptical. “I was told that the wards extend around the entire palace.”

  “And His Majesty explicitly instructed me to maintain only those wards already in place, which does not include these lower reaches. There have been no wards on the dungeon for longer than I have been archmage.”

  For one day longer… Hoseph remembered the day Tynean Tsing ordered a reluctant Archmage Venron to remove the dungeon wards. Hoseph had made it look like a natural death, of course, and the following day the emperor appointed an oblivious Duveau.

  “Why would he do that?” Ithross sounded incredulous.

  “I have no idea, Commander. I didn’t question my orders, I merely followed them.” The archmage raised an eyebrow. “Were you in the habit of asking an explanation from His Majesty?”

  Ithross ignored Duveau’s sarcasm. “Can you use magic to find the assassins?”

  “Perhaps. It would require something personal of theirs. Hair, a nail clipping, or even some token that they held dear for some time.”

  “What about the blood on this blademaster’s sword?” A knight lifted a stained katana. “The assassins apparently didn’t get away without injury.”

  “Alas, no. Blood is a fleeting thing in the human body. I would require something more substantial.”

  “We’ll have to search.” Ithross waved over his lieutenant. “Rhondont, send a runner for the emperor’s healer. Master Corvecosi may be able find something in this mess that didn’t belong to one of the blademasters, and help us piece together just what happened here. And Prince Arbuckle must be informed of his father’s death.”

  “I’ll inform the prince personally.” Sir Fineal gathered his two squires and they tramped out of the room.

  Hoseph bowed to Ithross. “If it please you, Commander, I’ll be off to clean up and rest. Archmage Duveau has healed my injuries, but I am weary and heartsick at the emperor’s demise.”

  “No, High Priest Hoseph, it does not please me.” Ithross looked stern. “The emperor is dead, and all we have to go on is a vague description of two assassins who apparently can pop in and out at will. You may not remember much, but Master Duveau’s magic can compel you to supply us with details you may not readily recall.” He’d stopped just short of calling Hoseph a liar. “I know you won’t mind.”

  Hoseph’s mind spun. Under Duveau’s spells, Hoseph’s mind would be laid bare. They could ask him anything, and he would be compelled to answer truthfully. That he could not allow, not if he hoped to get out of here alive.

  “High Priest Hoseph?” Ithross’ expression shifted to suspicion, and his hand drifted toward his sword.

  Hoseph smiled wearily. “Of course, I’ll do whatever I can do to help in the investigation, Commander. However, as the late emperor’s spiritual advisor, I have been entrusted with certain…personal confidences. It would be disrespectful to inadvertently reveal anything in”—Hoseph glanced around at the lingering guards and knights—“this company. Perhaps I could answer your questions someplace else? Someplace private?”

  “Very well. One moment.” Ithross turned to his lieutenant. “Rhondont, secure this room. No one should be touching anything until Master Corvecosi examines the scene.”

  Hoseph strode for the door without waiting for Ithross or Duveau. He had no time to waste, not with so many loose ends to tie up before he left the dungeon. Lengthening his stride, he flicked his talisman into his hand as he turned the corner, and invoked Demia’s divine power. All Archmage Duveau and Commander Ithross would find when they stepped into the corridor would be a few dissipating tendrils of black mist.

  Chapter I

  The tap on the door snapped Prince Arbuckle’s eyes from the book he was reading. He glanced at the ornate clock on his mantle. It was late. While it wasn’t unusual for him to read in bed until the small hours of the morning, a knock on the door at this hour was unheard of.

  “Yes?”

  The door opened and his valet, Baris, stepped in, shutting the sturdy oak portal firmly behind him. The man’s glazed eyes and slightly askew jacket roused Arbuckle’s curiosity. In all the years that Baris had attended him, he had never seen the valet less than sharp-eyed and impeccably attired, much less knocking on his door in the middle of the night.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, milord, but there is a knight here who insists on speaking to you.”

  “A knight?” This was getting interesting.

  Arbuckle didn’t know many of the knights beyond the few younger ones who sparred with him as part of his martial training. The older, more experienced knights were often away keeping order in the provinces or commanding troops in the field. Perhaps one of these had arrived with an urgent question of military convention, an issue requiring historical precedent. Arbuckle warmed to the prospect. Though he’d never studied at a formal university, he’d had tutors aplenty, and the palace boasted one of the best libraries in the empire. He was a true scholar of history, though few ever sought his knowledge or opinion.

  “Which knight?”

  “Sir Fineal, milord.”

  “Fineal?” Though Arbuckle had met Sir Fineal, he didn’t know him well. “Very well.”

  By the time Arbuckle had put his book aside and slipped his feet into a pair of slippers, Baris held his robe ready. Shrugging into the sumptuous garment, Arbuckle tied the sash tight and ran his fingers through his unruly hair. “Good enough. Let’s go.”

  “As you wish, milord.” Baris bowed and opened the door.

  Arbuckle stepped into the sitting room, the two blademasters stationed at the door slipping quietly into position behind and to either side of him. Bright lamp light reflected off Sir Fineal’s armor. Two squires hovered behind the knight, and all three bowed low as the crown prince entered.

  “Milord Prince,” Fineal said as he rose, “I bear tragic news.”

  For the first time since the knock on his door, apprehension trumped Arbuckle’s curiosity. He noted a red stain on the knight’s knee and boot—blood. Dread knotted Arbuckle’s stomach.

  “There’s been violence. What’s happened?”

  “I regret to announce, Milord Prince, that your father, the emperor, is dead.”

  “Dead?” The news was so far from what Arbuckle expected that the word didn’t register at first. “Dead? How?”

  “We were told there were assassins, Milord Prince, in the…dungeon.”

  For a long moment, Arbuckle felt nothing. He remembered being grief-stricken by his mother’s death when he was only ten years old, so why didn’t he feel anything now? He welcomed the wave of emotion when it finally washed over him, but instead of grief he felt…what? Relief? Liberation? The second wave was guilt for his lack of sorrow. But then, he and his father had never been close, the chasm between them widening year by year. A son’s love can withstand only so much derision and ridicule. Arbuckle had long ago realized that he didn’t even like his father, let alone love him. Duty, however, he understood.

  “Take me to him.”

  Sir Fineal’s mouth tightened and he seemed reluctant when he said, “Milord, it’s dangerous. In addition to your father, these assassins killed five of his blademasters, and they’ve not yet been apprehended.”

  Arbuckle felt a trickle of fear down his spine like a cold finger or a drop of icy water. Five blademasters… The notion seemed ludicrous. Impossible.

  The two blademasters at Arbuckle’s sides stirred. Glancing back at one of them, he was amazed to see a flash of disbelief in the man’s eyes before it was secreted beneath the customary blank expression. The flash of humanity there surprised him as much as the notion of regicide in the palace.

  “Has the Imperial Guard been mobilized, Sir Fineal?”

  “Of course, Milord Prince, and the entire knighthood and Order of Paladin as well.”

  “Then I daresay my safety is not at risk. I will go to see my father.” He turned to his valet. “Baris, some clothing, quickly now!”

  “Yes, Milord Prince.” Baris das
hed into Arbuckle’s bedchamber.

  “Milord Prince, I would feel better if your other bodyguards also accompanied you. May I summon them?”

  “Of course.”

  Fineal flicked a hand toward his eldest squire. The young woman bowed and quickly exited, her footfalls echoing as she ran down the corridor.

  Arbuckle retired to his bedroom to dress, his mind spinning. Who could kill five blademasters? The entire situation seemed surreal. The dungeons… He suddenly remembered one day when he was quite young, his father insisting that he accompany him down to the dungeons on the pretense of playing some sort of game. The faces of the prisoners and the stench of human confinement had sent Arbuckle running. That had been the first of many occasions when he had resisted his father’s attempts to “educate” him. What the education entailed, Arbuckle never knew. Finally—thank the gods—Tynean Tsing had stopped trying and left Arbuckle to his books.

  What if this is just a ruse to get me down there? He wouldn’t put anything past his father.

  Arbuckle emerged from his bedroom into a sitting room crowded with agitated warriors. Three more knights and their squires shifted impatiently. In contrast, the additional blademasters stood absolutely still save for the flicking of fingers as they conversed amongst themselves in their indecipherable sign language. Arbuckle swallowed. He’d known since his youth that blademasters didn’t speak, but had not learned until later that their tongues were cut out as part of their training. In a corner stood the imperial scribe, apparently summoned from his bed, surveying the scene and scribbling notes in his big book. All snapped to attention and bowed.

  Arbuckle jerked his surcoat straight and twisted his neck to relieve a persistent kink. “Take me to the emperor.”

  “Yes, Milord Prince!”

  The entourage strode swiftly through the palace corridors and down myriad stairs, the knights’ armor clattering, and the blademasters as quiet as death. The sumptuous tapestries and rugs of the residential wing gave way to the ostentation of the public galleries, then an isolated corridor as bleak as Arbuckle’s memory of it. Instead of the impressively stout door he remembered, however, a heap of splintered timber and twisted iron lay aside.

  “What happened here?”

  “Archmage Duveau breeched the door with magic, Milord Prince,” Sir Fineal explained. “Only the jailor has a key, and he couldn’t be found.”

  “I see.” The thought of such power made Arbuckle’s skin crawl. He had read about the havoc wreaked by magic in battles, but the most extravagant description of destruction paled beside first-hand observation. All the blademasters in the palace couldn’t protect against something like that. Thank the gods that Archmage Duveau is on my side. “Lead on.”

  The long, dimly lit stair led to a dungeon worthy of nightmares. The thick air reeked of refuse and excrement. As Arbuckle followed the knights down a corridor, he spied within several of the barred cells forlorn figures huddled upon straw-strewn floors without so much as a blanket for comfort. His gut roiled. He understood that the empire had enemies, and that those arrested for crimes must be punished, but such squalor was inhuman.

  They turned a corner. A crowd of knights and squires stood before a doorway, facing a line of imperial guards who blocked the entrance. Though the heavy double doors were open, Arbuckle couldn’t see through the mass of people to the room beyond.

  “Milord Prince.” Sir Fineal held up a forestalling hand. “I must warn you that the scene is…not pleasant to view. The…interrogation chamber is a grim sight.”

  “Very well. I’ve been warned.” Arbuckle clenched his jaw, resolving to be stoic, though the sickly scent of blood now permeated the air as well. “Proceed.”

  “Yes, Milord Prince.” The smell grew stronger as they approached the line of imperial guards.

  One turned to call into the room. “Commander!”

  The knights and squires moved aside, but the imperial guards held their ground.

  “Move aside for your lord prince,” Fineal said.

  Arbuckle peered past the guards, the light of a dozen torches gleaming on the burnished metal racks, spikes, chains, and other implements that furnished the room. “Good Gods of Light!”

  “Sir Fineal, I told you that—” Commander Ithross stopped as he caught sight of Arbuckle, and his eyebrows shot up, then he bowed low. “Milord Prince! I didn’t expect you to come down here.”

  “Sir Fineal has told me that my father is dead, Commander. I must see him.” The guards stepped aside at Ithross’ wave. Arbuckle entered, looked with revulsion at the burnished machines of torture, then turned his gaze to the imperial guard commander. “What is this place?”

  Ithross swallowed forcefully. “The emperor called this his interrogation chamber, milord.”

  “You mean torture chamber, don’t you?”

  Ithross lifted his chin and gazed steadily back at the prince. “His Majesty always referred to it as the interrogation chamber, milord.”

  “And who conducted the interrogations?” Arbuckle forced the words out, afraid that he already knew the answer.

  “I don’t know for certain, Milord Prince, but it’s rumored among the guards and knights that…” Ithross glanced questioningly at Sir Fineal and received a nod of acknowledgement in return. “…that the emperor took a…special interest in the practice.”

  Arbuckle felt ill. He’d known for years that his father was a heartless tyrant. That Emperor Tynean Tsing had actually participated in the torture of prisoners, however, turned his stomach. Arbuckle fought to maintain his composure, speaking through clenched teeth.

  “Show me my father, Commander.”

  “Yes, milord.” Ithross led them around the room’s thick central pillar, and a cordon of guards parted.

  Blood… It was everywhere, the scent so thick that he could taste it. Arbuckle stopped at the shore of a congealing crimson lake strewn with carnage. He had watched the blademasters spar many times, always amazed at their skill and stamina. Trained to be the best, inured to pain, blessed by their god, and pledged to defend their charges or die. These five had died.

  “Good gods…”

  A figure to his left stood from a crouch—Master Corvecosi, the imperial healer—and Arbuckle saw rich blue robes at the man’s feet. He knew instantly who lay there.

  Father… Arbuckle skirted the thick pool of blood, compelled by an unnerving yet unrelenting need to see this man whom he had thought he knew. Closer, he couldn’t avoid the blood, and his shoes squelched in the spattered gore underfoot.

  The healer stepped aside, bowing low. “Milord Prince.”

  “What are you doing here, Master Corvecosi?” Arbuckle couldn’t take his eyes from his father’s body, the bony hand clutching the dagger that had been thrust up beneath his chin into his brain. He tried to feel pity or sorrow, but all he could think was that the old man’s cold eyes would never again stare disdainfully, his lips wouldn’t twist into a sneer, his harsh voice wouldn’t chide and berate, the hands would never again torture... He realized with a start that Corvecosi was speaking.

  “…summoned to examine the scene and lend my expertise, perhaps to determine exactly what occurred here.”

  “What have you determined so far?”

  “I can unequivocally say that your father did not, as it may appear, take his own life. His hand gripping the dagger was very nearly crushed. Something very strong grasped His Majesty’s hand and thrust the blade that ended his life.”

  “I see.”

  “I have just begun examining the scene, Milord Prince, but I have already noted a few peculiarities.”

  “More peculiar than five dead blademasters?” Arbuckle stared at the carnage again. “How many assassins does it take to kill five blademasters?”

  Ithross mistook the rhetorical question for an inquiry. “Milord Prince, we’ve been told that there were two assassins.”

  “Two?” Arbuckle couldn’t imagine anyone capable of such a feat. “How in the Nine Hells could
two assassins overcome five blademasters?”

  “We don’t know, milord. The only person who saw the fight has…vanished.”

  Arbuckle stared at Ithross. “Vanished? What do you mean? Who saw this happen?”

  “Master Hoseph was apparently here when the attack started. He escaped to summon help, though he bore injuries of his own. I was about to question him further, with Archmage Duveau’s aid, when he…”— Ithross looked uncomfortable—“vanished.”

  “Vanished. You mean he actually, magically vanished? I thought the palace was warded to prevent that.”

  “According to Archmage Duveau, the dungeons are not included in the wards.”

  “Why not?”

  “We don’t know, Milord Prince.”

  Arbuckle shook his head in stunned silence. Mysterious assassins, dead blademasters, vanishing priests…what next? “What else is peculiar, Master Corvecosi?”

  The dark man gestured to the blood pooled beneath the hanging cage. “I at first assumed that this blood was from the emperor, being so close to his body. Upon closer examination, however, it appears that someone was recently restrained in this device.” He touched one of the gruesome screws. “This blood is fresh, yet there is no corpse here bearing wounds so inflicted.”

  “A rescue?” Arbuckle’s mind whirled. “What prisoner would precipitate such a rescue?”

  The healer shrugged. “That is an interesting theory.” He strode to one of the corpses, apparently unfazed by all the blood. “And here, this man, unlike all the others, has barely a mark on him.” Kneeling, he pressed a plump hand to the blademaster’s brow and muttered under his breath. “Yes, as I suspected, he was killed with a lethal toxin.”

  “Toxin?” Arbuckle knew from his reading that poisoned weapons were commonly used in some cultures. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m quite sure, milord.” He rose and nodded his head absently. “Quite sure.”

  Arbuckle had no reason to doubt him. He had always liked Corvecosi, one of the few imperial attendants not stifled by formality or unduly cowed by the late emperor’s imperious attitude. As a boy, the prince had appreciated the man’s quiet bedside manner, his cool hand on a fevered forehead, gentle words, and the sense of peace that followed his visits. Evidently, there was more to the healer’s art than mere knowledge of illness.