Weapon of Flesh by Chris A. Jackson Page B

slightly.  Her face bore a wide bruise and several scrapes from jaw to temple.
    “And when did you arrive here with this message, Mya?”
    “Last night, Sir.  Just before midnight.”
    “And why, dear Mya, did you not deliver your message upon your arrival?”  The tip of the dagger pricked her skin just enough to allow a drop of blood to ooze down the blade.  She remained perfectly still, eyes fixed on his, her lips working without her jaw moving in an attempt to keep the blade from piercing more deeply.
    “Such was my intent, Grandfather, but I was told that you were not to be disturbed.  I had little hope to win past your guards and your valet to bring you the news.”
    His eyes left hers and fixed the guard standing behind her with a narrow stare.
    “Is this true?”
    “Yes, Grandfather.”
    His eyes returned to hers, and his lip twitched once again.  The dagger left Mya’s chin for the span of one fluttering heartbeat, and when it returned it was drenched to the hilt.  A fine spray of blood spattered Mya’s upturned face, but again, she did not flinch.  A gasp from the Grandfather’s left evolved into a gurgle, and the valet fell past them, his throat slit neatly from earlobe to earlobe.  He was dead before he hit the floor.
    “Stand up, Mya.”
    His dagger stayed at her chin as she stood upon legs shaky from fear or a long sleepless night on a hard marble floor.  She was not tall—the top of her head was still below his shoulders as he stood upon the lowest step of the stair.  Young and fit, but slight of frame, he remembered her from the courtyard when he sent Targus on the hunt.  There was less fear in her eyes than he would have liked, but that also could have been blunted by her obvious exhaustion.
    “When last did you see my weapon?”  He lowered the dagger slowly, but kept it in his hand.
    “Yesterday just before midday, Grandfather.”  Still, she did not move, even to wipe the blood from her face.
    “And where?”
    “A quarterday’s hard ride west of the crossroads to Melfey, Grandfather.”  She swallowed and blinked once.  “At his pace, he would have arrived just at dawn.”
    “Guard, find Sereth and send him on horseback to the east road gate.  Tell him he is to watch for a boy entering alone.  If he sees this boy, he is to follow without being seen or heard.  Go.”
    “Yes, Grandfather!”  The guard started off, but Mya’s shout brought him up short.
    “He’s dressed like a slave: brown tunic, rope belt, short trousers and no shoes.  He’s got sandy hair, and he’s thin.  About my height.”  The guard looked at her, then at the Grandfather, confusion evident on his face; the guildmaster’s guards were trained to take orders from one person only, not some upstart second apprentice.
    “Anything else?” the Grandfather asked, one eyebrow cocking in amusement.
    “Yes; he walks like you, Sir.  More grace than a dancer, and he leaves no tracks.  He’s strange to talk to, like he knows nothing of the world.  He asked me what a city was.”
    “Tell Sereth all of that.  Now go, and tell him to hurry.  We may still be lucky.”  His eyes lost focus for a moment, his thoughts racing ahead to all the possible permutations of effect this new information could set into motion.  He snapped to focus again, his eyes fixing onto Mya’s like a hawk acquiring prey.
    “You will come with me, Mya.  I have been informed that there is a bath waiting, and breakfast after.  You look like you could do with both; and while you bathe and eat, you will tell me every detail since you left this estate with Targus.”
    “Yes, Grandfather.”
    “Good.”  Two more guards entered the foyer as the Grandfather turned, his right hand extending to guide Mya up the stairs. “Guards, have my valet removed.  We no longer require his services.  And send my scribe and artist to the morning room.”

    Lad’s steps were those of a man in a trance.  As the glow of predawn