Free Weapon of Vengeance (Weapon of Flesh Trilogy) by Chris A. Jackson

…  The standard coach to Tsing
took almost two weeks, leaving him only six weeks to find Wiggen’s killer
before he had to leave for his meeting with the Grandmaster.  He would not— could not—leave Twailin before he avenged his wife.
    “Draft a letter thanking him for his understanding
of the situation, and say that I’ll make every effort to be there within the
allotted time.  Make it cordial, but don’t make me sound like…”  Like what?  
“…his slave.”
    “Yes, sir.”  Dee jotted a note in the tiny book he
kept in his pocket.  “You’ll…um…need some new clothes for the trip, sir.”
    “Clothes?”  The mundane issue irritated Lad to no
end.  It seemed like just another distraction from working to find Wiggen’s
killer.  “You just bought me a whole closetful of clothes.  What’s wrong with
them?”
    “Nothing, sir, but you’ll need travelling clothes,
as well as something suitable for Tsing.  It’s the capital of the empire, after
all.  And, of course, something formal for your meeting with the Grandmaster.” 
Dee sipped blackbrew, furrowing his brow as he considered his master.  “He did
stipulate formal attire, sir.  If you insult him, you’ll not live to regret
it.”
    “Fine!”  Lad tossed back the last of his blackbrew
and stood.  “Buy me some new clothes.”
    “You’ll want a tailor to—”
    “Then hire a tailor!  Hire whoever you want!  Buy a
whole house full of shit I don’t need!”  He threw down his napkin and
started for the door.  “I’m going out!  I’ll read the rest of the letters
later.  Tell the masters to be here tonight at sunset.  I want to hear their
reports from their own mouths.”
    Lad was out the door and halfway down the stairs to
the street before he heard Dee’s tentative, “As you wish, Master.”
     

     
    The urgent knock snapped Norwood’s train of
thought.  He threw his pen down and glared at the door as it opened partway. 
“I told you—”
    “Sir!”  The desk sergeant peered around the door,
his face a mask of worry.  “There’s a Lord Barrington here to see you.  He
requests—”
    The door burst all the way open before the sergeant
could finish, and a tall man pushed his way into the captain’s office.  The
man’s brilliant green velvet jacket, gold waistcoat, and ornate rapier screamed
wealth, and the small coat of arms on his breast pocket stated as clearly as a
herald’s cry that blood as blue as a summer sky pulsed through his veins.
    “Lords of the realm do not request anything
from the Royal Guard, Sergeant.  Your purpose is to serve and protect
us.”
    “Your pardon, milord.”  The sergeant stepped around
the lord, his face flushed as he saluted stiffly. “Lord Barrington would like a
word with you, sir.”
    “Thank you, sergeant.”  Norwood shifted his
expression from annoyance to pleasant neutrality as he stood to greet the
intruder.
    Norwood disliked dealing with sanctimonious nobles,
but Lord Barrington was essentially correct.  Some nobles pushed the bounds granted
by title, influence, and money.  Lord Barrington obviously possessed all three
entitlements, and expected his due deference.  The captain had learned long ago
that a little servility—ass-kissing, as Tamir put it—was the most effective
means of dealing with this breed.
    “What can the Royal Guard do for you today,
milord?”  He executed a precise military bow.
    “The reason for this visit is not what you can do
for us, Captain Norwood, but what we can do for you.” 
    “We, milord?”  Though of noble blood, a mere lord
was not due the royal ‘We’.
    Barrington suddenly realized that he stood alone and
called sharply over his shoulder, “Leonard!”
    “Sorry, father.”  A bright-eyed boy hurried in and
shut the door.  “I was just looking at the map they had out there.  It’s
fascinating!”
    “Captain Norwood, this is my son Leonard.  He has
made a discovery.”
    “Discovery, milord?”